A Knight to Remember
by Copgirl
Summary: This story is a b-day present for shjwst. Without his consent John finds himself relocated to Afghanistan. Sherlock is left in London, less than thrilled about his flatmate's absence. While John is fighting for his survival and Sherlock tries to work with a new assistant both men have time to consider the feelings for each other. Mystrade relationship already established.
1. Chapter 1

The story has been kindly beta-ed by Jack63kids and Johnsarmylady. Thanks a lot for helping, ladies!

* * *

John Watson faded in and out of consciousness. He couldn't tell if he was dreaming or not and his sense of time was muddled, which made it difficult for him to grasp how long it took him to wake up properly.

The dull pain which pulsated in his head and the rotten taste on his tongue, as if by accident he had consumed one of Sherlock's more inventive experiments instead of tea, were tell-tale signs that he had been drugged.

The air on his skin felt warm. Very warm. Although he was only dressed in boxers and a t-shirt he was sweating profusely.

Peeling his burning eyes open, John studied his surroundings. He occupied a small, rectangular room, faintly lit from a small, dirty window high in the wall. The room was sparsely furnished with the bed he was lying in, a closet, a wooden desk and a chair.

When John closed his eyes for a moment, hoping it would ease the headache, he became aware of the dry, frightfully familiar smell of the room. With a cry he jumped up and stood on the bed to look out of the window, not caring that the sudden movement caused the pain in his head to flare. Panting he looked at the wooden wall of a one storey building, the sole sight the view provided but John was in no doubt of is whereabouts. Never ever would he forget the smell of Afghanistan.

oOo

The October wind was howling through Baker Street, driving fat drops of unpleasantly cold rain against the living-room window. One resident of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes, was lying on the sofa, facing the wall. Curled into a tight ball, he had his knees pressed to his chest, while tremors were running through his thin frame.

Sherlock's brother Mycroft, clad in his usual three-piece bespoke suit, stood stiffly in the middle of the room and only someone who knew him well would recognize the concern in his expression as he regarded his younger sibling.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I don't have anything to do with the disappearance of the good doctor," the elder Holmes said.

Mycroft stepped closer. The new angle and his height was enabling him to study his younger sibling's face. The rose-pedal shape of Sherlock's lower lip advertised, that he was in full pout-mode. Knowing a soothing touch wouldn't be welcomed, the politician settled for moving to the unoccupied end the sofa and with a sigh he sat down. A mere inch separated the brothers and Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock would react to his presence; perhaps to the warmth his body radiated.

The minutes passed and while neither men spoke, Sherlock slowly began to relax. Eventually the soles of the younger Holmes' feet made the first tentative contact with the expensive fabric of the bespoke trousers. Mycroft tried not to wince. Not only were his sibling's feet freezing cold, the soles were unbelievably dirty from walking around the flat in bare feet. Only God knew the horrors that strived to live in the carpet. Particles, that probably qualified as a biological or chemical weapon, got transferred from skin to textile.

Another thirty minutes elapsed during which Mycroft silently bid farewell to his trousers and regretted that he hadn't gone to the bathroom before sitting down. Banning all thoughts about the tea he had drunk earlier from his mind, he quietly tapped away on his phone, hoping one of his numerous minions would send the information concerning when and where John Watson had disappeared.

A part of Sherlock was immensely grateful for his brother's presence and would have liked nothing better than curl against Mycroft's solid form like he had done as a child, knowing he would always find comfort and encouragement in his sibling's embrace. Yet, another part despised this weakness. They were no longer children and the idea that the omnipotent presence of his big brother would keep the demons of the everyday life away had crumbled to dust a long time ago.

Mycroft only sat quietly on the sofa, offering his support, and although Sherlock himself had initiated the physical contact by having pressed his feet to the familiar body the younger Holmes began to feel oppressed. Suddenly appalled by is own need for comfort, Sherlock pulled back one foot and viciously kick his heel into his brother's leg.

Mycroft jumped up with a startled cry. Rubbing his abused thigh, he looked disappointedly at his younger brother. His keen eyes detected the slight movement of Sherlock's jaw and recognized it for what it was; an apology the man was incapable of voicing.

Sighing through his nose, Mycroft limped to the door and donned his coat. "I'll get back to you as soon as I have information about John Watson," he said before he took his umbrella and went downstairs.

When Sherlock heard the sound of the front door being closed he got up and looked out of the window. Although Mycroft's head and upper-body were hidden from view by the black umbrella, Sherlock could deduce the whole repertoire of his brother's current emotions.

He knew that the short outburst of violence had been unjust but Sherlock hadn't been able to help himself. If he had hoped that hurting his brother would make him feel better, he was disappointed. Mycroft would hardly ever reproach him but it had been as if the ever caring man's presence had drawn attention to the guilt Sherlock felt. Guilt because only after an almost twenty-four hour delay had he noticed that his best friend John was missing.

oOo

With his knees drawn tightly against his chest, John sat on the bed. His forehead was lowered onto his knees, his eyes were squeezed shut and the fingers of his left hand were curled into the hair at the back of his head. Years back, when Mycroft Holmes had confronted John in an empty warehouse for the first time, he had told him that he was not haunted by the war but was missing it. Of course, he had been right but of late the doctor was thoroughly satisfied by simply walking with Sherlock Holmes and seeing the battlefield called London.

John had no idea why he had been brought to Afghanistan or by whom. Did somebody expect him to fight again or work here as a doctor? Those questions could only be answered by those who abducted him but he could gather other information by using his brain.

Having spent several years with the clever consulting detective who John called his best friend hadn't left the doctor untouched. It took some effort but after mentally retracing his steps John remembered that he had seen a black limousine that had been idling at the curb when he had left Superdrug. That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up in this room. Could Mycroft be behind his abduction? John doubted that. Unless the man had suddenly developed suicidal tendencies, for Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to his flatmate's relocation and would turn positively malicious if he found out who was behind it.

Calculating how much time could have passed, John recalled that he had been amused that the time on the Superdrug receipt had been 9:10:11 and that he had paid ₤ 12.13. Among other things, John calculated the flight-time with approximately eight hours to Afghanistan plus four and a half hours time difference. Taking the time of day from faint light coming from the window into consideration and the stubble on his chin he conclude that about thirty-two hours must have passed since he, John produced a humourless laugh, had been drugged in front of Superdrug.

Doing the maths had somewhat cleared his head and he noticed that he was quite thirsty. Getting up from the bed John walked to the door and carefully tried the handle. The door wasn't locked and upon opening it he discovered a soldier who was standing just outside.

"Captain Watson, sir." The soldier stood to attention and saluted. John felt a bit silly returning the salute wearing nothing but his underwear but the young soldier didn't miss a beat.

"I'm Lance Corporal Jefferson, Sir. I was ordered to offer you my assistance."

Lance Corporal Jefferson told John that he was indeed in Afghanistan, in a camp near Kandahar, and that he would meet with Brigadier Bertram Limey, who would explain why he was here. First though he had time to shower and get something to eat.

Opening a door opposite the room John occupied right now, the soldier showed him a small bathroom with a shower and wash-basin. On a table rested a neat pile of clean army attire, that looked like it'd be John's size. On a stand next to the wash-basin he towels as well as soap and shaving tackle.

John's mood didn't improve on inspecting the bathroom as well as the clothes. Still, since he didn't have the option to take the next bus home, he decided to make use of what had been offered and see what they, whoever they were, wanted from him.

Less then an hour later, squeaky clean, dressed in what were probably his first bespoke fatigues and with his stomach full of stew that had been surprisingly good, John was led to the office of the camp's brigadier. Good food went a long way with John but if the Brigadier thought that John Watson could be bought with stew and a bit of buttering up he was very much mistaken.

Jefferson knocked and once he had heard "Enter!" from inside, he opened the door for John and left with a curd nod.

Bertram Limey was in his late fifties, his hair was short cropped, he was tanned and his uniform's fabric was stretched tightly over a bulky, muscular chest.

Limey remained seated behind his desk but he gave John a broad smile. "Captain Watson, have a seat. Might I call you John?"

"No," John answered, which clearly surprised the Brigadier. "I've been brought here against my will and I suggest we skip the pleasantries. I want to know who's responsible for my abduction and I demand that I will be returned to London immediately."

The Brigadier barked out a laugh. "Your deployment has been ordered from the very top."

"Right," John said, his voice dangerously low, while he drew his own conclusions. "From the very top? You can tell Mr. Holmes that he better return me back to London right away."

"Who?" Limey looked genuinely puzzled.

"Mycroft Holmes. Posh bloke, married to an umbrella."

"I can assure you, Captain Watson, I neither know such a man nor is he the one who ordered your deployment. When I told you it came from the very top I meant it. This mission you are here to carry out is highly classified and of utmost importance."

John wasn't sure if the fact that Sherlock's brother was not behind his deployment should alarm or comfort him.

"A classified, important mission and the only person the British army could find is an ex-soldier who has been taken out of service six years ago after having been declared unfit?"

"Actually yes." Limey folded his hands in front of him. "Believe it or not, Captain Watson, but you are the only person who might be able to accomplish this mission."

oOo

The office door was opened with so much force that it slammed into the wall, startling Mycroft enough that some of the hot liquid from his teacup sloshed onto his trousers. He hissed with pain. Today was not a good day for his thigh.

Sherlock strutted into the room, followed by a scrawny man who was wringing his hands. "I apologize, Mr. Holmes. There was nothing I could do."

"Actually you could have done lots of things, if you hadn't been engrossed in texting with your wife," Sherlock told him.

With an impatient wave of his hand Mycroft dismissed the bowing and scraping secretary.

"You're getting soft, brother. A year ago he would already be on his way to Siberia," Sherlock commented.

"Kamchatka is quite lovely at this time of the year," Mycroft growled. His hostile glare left it open if the information was meant for Sherlock or the scared minion, who fled in terror. Mycroft fished a napkin from a drawer and dabbed at the tea stain on his trouser leg before he declared a second pair of trousers within a day as a case for dry cleaning.

With a sigh he motioned for Sherlock to come round his desk. "Anthea will be back from her holiday, blessedly, by the end of the week," he told him. Pressing a few keys on his computer, the government official started a video that had been filmed by CCTV. It showed John Watson leaving a Superdrug store. Right before the blond doctor left the area watched by the camera, he slowed down and cocked his head to the side. It looked like John had spotted someone or something he was familiar with before he continued on his way.

"There are no further pictures of your doctor from any other camera." Mycroft said and replayed the video, knowing Sherlock would want to watch it again.

Sherlock was still replaying the video when Mycroft's mobile rang. Answering it the elder Holmes was surprised to have John Watson on the line.

"Doctor, how good of you to call." Sherlock's head turned so quickly upon his brother's words that Mycroft feared his neck would snap. "Sherlock is here with me. I put you on speaker."

"Hey, Sherlock," John said, "I'm just calling to let you to know that I'm okay. My journey came on somewhat short notice."

While John was talking, Mycroft pressed a button on his desk to have the call traced by the most nifty equipment Britain had to offer.

"What happened, John? Where are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Blimey, I wish I could tell you but I really can't. There is a job I have to do before I can come home. But my mate Murray always said, getting home is as easy as catching a cab in London."

The Holmes brother's exchanged a look.

A muffled voice could be heard in the background. "Sorry, I've got to go," John said.

"John!" Sherlock called out.

"Yes?"

"Take care, John."

"I will, Sherlock."

There was a slight pause before John hung up.

A few seconds after the call ended, Mycroft's phone rang again. The government official listened quietly to the caller. "I understand," he said and hung up.

"The call," Mycroft told his sibling, "was directed through a line in Whitehall."

Sherlock's eyes slanted. "Where in Whitehall?"

Mycroft shook his head. "They haven't been more specific but I recognized plenty of subtext in your doctor's speech.

"Indeed." Sherlock went to the other side of Mycroft's desk, sat in the visitor's chair and put his feet on the table. He placed his fingers underneath his chin, pressing the palms of his hands together.

"Bill Murray and John were together in the army. When John was shot he saved his live by bringing him back."

"Then this impromptu trip could be related to the army," Mycroft offered. "What else?"

"Catching a cab in London has never been a problem for me but it is something John has difficulties with."

"Meaning he expects problems coming back home from wherever he is."

"Precisely!"

For a moment both brothers were silent, processing the information they had. What about the voices in the background?" Mycroft asked.

The fact that the consulting detective didn't use the question to make a nasty comment on his older brother's decreasing hearing abilities, communicated his state of aggravation.

Sherlock only shook his head. "Two men, perhaps three," he replied. "Nothing useful."

To any other person Sherlock would appear perfectly calm but Mycroft recognized the supple signs which revealed that his baby-brother was quite upset.

"Concentrate, Sherlock," he demanded. "What about that curse? Usually Doctor Watson's expresses himself more colourful, doesn't he?"

"Blimey?" Sherlock hummed for a moment. "It is far fetched but could that be a name? Somebody in the army?"

Mycroft looked doubtful but began typing on his computer, logging himself into a database he had no business logging into. He typed _Blimey_ but the search resulted in no match. Trying _Limey_ , he struck gold though.

"Brigadier Bertram Limey," Mycroft read aloud, "is stationed in Kandahar.

"B. Limey," Sherlock said. "Blimey!"

"Blimey, indeed."

"So, John is in Kandahar on a mission for the army and that the call was traced to Whitehall means it was channelled by the Ministry of Defence."

Mycroft nodded his agreement. "The question that remains is, what could be possible the mission that they have to fall back on an ex-army doctor who has been rejected as unfit for service five years ago?"

oOo

John felt much better once he had made the phone-call. The Brigadier had told him that all of his belongings, including his phone, had been left in London. If he wanted to make a call he had to provide a number. Naturally John hardly knew his own mobile-number, never mind Sherlock's. In the age of speed dialling and saving phone-numbers on a sim card instead of memorizing them, it had been a close call – no pun intended. Fortunately, a few a month previously, John had learned that Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had changed their relationship from friends to lovers. On top of that it had turned out, that the so-called Iceman was in fact a closet romantic for he had changed his phone-number; now the last seven digits spelled out G-r-e-g-o-r-y.

John had been under orders not to disclose any information, other than the fact that he was still alive and kicking; and Limey had been quite clear that the reinstated army-doctor would face a military court marshall, should he disobey his orders. Lance Corporal Myles Jefferson, who was his assigned watchdog, had been told to listen to the call John made and report back to the Brigadier should need arise.

Once the call was completed to both John's and Jefferson's satisfaction, the latter took the doctor to a small conference room where Brigadier Limey and three British officers of various ranks were bent over a table, arguing excitedly among themselves. When John and Jefferson entered, all four men stopped mind sentence and turned around.

Limey gave a tall man with the rank of a Lieutenant Colonel a sharp look before he dismissed Jefferson and asked John to step up to the desk.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Porco," Limey introduced one of the officers. "He had been in charge of the mission."

Needless to say John understood at once that whatever the mission had been, Porco apparently had screwed it up and was no longer in charge. "Colonel Green, who is in charge now, and Lieutenant Colonel Osborne," Limey introduced the other officers in the room before he walked to the door. "Gentlemen, I have a camp to run." The door slammed shut.

'What an abject coward,' John thought. 'He expects Green to fail too and has washed his hands of the matter by staying clear of the mission.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, John studied the soldiers. "I think you have tried my patience long enough. I want to know what's going on and why am I so important that you had to force my cooperation by abducting me?"

With a nod Green assigned Porco to fill him in.

Porco began without preamble. "In 2008 the third turbine for the Kajakai Dam arrived from Kandahar under British leadership. Despite the turbine being delivered on site it has still not been installed. Several hundred tonnes of cement are required which cannot be delivered to the dam due to attacks by the Taliban. Completion is anticipated next year.

Many people have given up on the project and the costs are immense. Although nearing completion the project would fail without the private investors."

The Lieutenant Colonel pinched the bridge of his nose before he continued.

"Four day ago eight of the largest investors were invited to personally inspect the progress that had been made, essentially to boost their confidence. The visitation was top secret but apparently word got out nonetheless. Non of the investors were harmed but five of my men were killed and twelve were wounded. And, here comes the worst part, we had a high ranking VIP from London. The VIP and three other men have been captured by the group that attacked us."

"And who is the VIP?"

"We found evidence that the Taliban weren't responsible for the attack but a small tribe that lives in the northern district of the Zabul province. Those people are extremely poor. Selling the captives to the Taliban could be very profitable for them."

"You still haven't told me the name of that VIP but after four days the Taliban surely have been informed, haven't they?"

"Intelligence has provided us with the information that the tribe probably has no idea who they have captured. Nevertheless, time is of the essence. When the Taliban send someone to inspect the prisoners, they will know who it is and that knowledge will have an influence on the development of Britain's involvement in Afghanistan."

"You are beating around the bush," John said. "Who is the bleeding VIP?"

It was clear that Porco was unhappy to answer that question but he knew there was no other way. "The VIP is Prince Henry of Wales, better known as Prince Harry."

A member of the royal family in the hands of the Taliban would have serious consequences not only for Afghanistan and England but allied forces too. Still, John didn't see how he of all people could tip the scales.

"This is really bad but where do I come in? You probably don't plan to send me to wherever they're keeping him and ask if they wouldn't mind releasing him into my care."

Green produced a grunt and took over from Porco. "We don't know where he's held prisoner. Often we can make a bargain with somebody for information but not this time. We found a man who might know but he hates everything and everyone remotely British. Everyone but the man who saved his grandson's life. His name is Said Rahimi."

"I remember a woman called Leila Rahimi. One of our helicopters crashed in Malistan, where she lived with her family. I was there with my unit, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Green interrupted John. "Yes, you managed to save the girl but not her brother that day. Still Leila's father was so very grateful he even named Leila's son who was born about a year ago after you."

John's eyes went wide. "She called her son John?"

Green laughed. "No, that would be bad for the boy. She chose a name that is very close to your second name. Her son is called Hamid."

John decided right away that he liked the name Hamid better than Hamish.

"So, you think Rahimi will be willing to talk to me?"

"Yes," Green nodded. "And therefore we're going to leave tomorrow morning at dawn. There is no time to lose but travelling at night is too dangerous."

For another two hours the men planned the actions they would take and only when John was finally lying in his bed did he begin to wonder what they intended to do if negotiations should fail.

oOo

By the time the British Government went to his favourite café in Kensington, he could be certain that most employees of the Ministry of Defence were shaken to the core. Threatening the lot of them had been exhausting but he had to admit that he had also enjoyed it quite a bit and it had got him the information he wanted. Now he needed a break, which should preferably involve tea, a piece of cake and Gregory – not necessarily in that order.

For once fate seemed to look favourable upon Mycroft for, when he had climbed the stairs to the café's upper floor, he found his inspector already sitting at a table. Greg rose from his seat when Mycroft arrived, greeted him with a soft kiss and took his coat. A coat rack stood right behind their table and Greg hung Mycroft's coat right next to his Mackintosh.

When Sherlock arrived twenty minutes later, armed with a large piece of Dundee cake and an equally large coffee, he found both men with their legs tangled under the table, chatting amiably over their already empty plates and cups. Mycroft studied his brother's smug expression and the delights on his tray.

"I presume you told them I would pay for that," he said.

Sherlock bobbed his head for an answer before his Belstaff joined the other coats on the rack. Without a word he plonked himself down on the seat and began eating with his usual post-case appetite.

For a minute or so Mycroft marvelled at Gregory's fond expression, while the DI watched Sherlock shovelling down the cake. It was a real wonder that his prickly brother had found people who truly cared for him. All the more reason to bring back one of this rare breed who was currently in Afghanistan.

Knowing his sibling was perfectly capable of listening and eating at the same time, Mycroft was about to relate the information he had gathered in the Ministry when his look fell upon his partner. Although he trusted Gregory implicitly there were still some things he couldn't share.

"Would you mind fetching us more tea, my love." Mycroft wasn't a man who used endearments lightly and he hoped Gregory would understand.

The man's chocolate eyes regarded the government official's pained expression before he stood up. "Certainly." He kissed Mycroft's head and left the table, striding purposefully towards the stairs.

Washing down the cake with his coffee, Sherlock studied his brother's expression.

"What happened to caring is not an advantage?"

"It isn't. Otherwise things like this wouldn't be so difficult." There was no need to explain what he meant by 'this'.

"You love him," Sherlock stated.

"With all my heart." A blush coloured Mycroft's cheeks but then he looked into his brother's eyes. "As much as you love John Watson, Sherlock."

The fact that Sherlock didn't deny his statement was the final proof Mycroft had needed. Under normal circumstances this would have been the moment when one brother would have left because talking about feelings were really neither men's area of expertise but the situation as well as actions needed to be agreed on.

When Greg came back almost ten minutes later Sherlock knew that a member of the royal family needed to be liberated and that right now John Watson was the only one who might have a chance to succeed.

Greg sat down and squeezed Mycroft's hand. "Got everything settled?"

"Yes." Mycroft sounded relieved that his partner didn't harbour any hard feelings and that he understood.

"Not everything is secret. I can tell you this much, John Watson has been abducted and is currently on a top secret mission for the army in Afghanistan."

The inspector's eyes went wide. No wonder that Sherlock looked more than a bit frazzled.

"Anything we can do to help him?" Greg asked.

"My brother has assured me that he's doing everything in his powers to return him safely," Sherlock replied.

Sherlock's words translated roughly into 'Should Mycroft fail I will hate him for the rest of my life and will make his life utterly miserable'.

Before Greg could ask another question, Sherlock spoke up again. "I am taking a case in Yorkshire and since you have a whole week of holiday ahead of you, you might as well come along." He looked at the DI expectantly.

"So sorry, Sherlock, but I'll be flying to Italy tomorrow morning. My plane to Florence is leaving at nine." Greg didn't sound the least bit sorry that the consulting detective wouldn't be able to drag him all the way to Yorkshire for some obscure case.

"Unless the flight is delayed it will leave at five past nine but you won't be on the plane. I need your assistance and cancelled your holiday."

Mycroft covered his face with his hands while the DI's mouth fell open. "You did what?" Greg shouted.

"Don't worry, I told them your mother died so your travel-insurance will cover your expenses," Sherlock offered.

"That's not the point!"

"John is absent and I work better with an assistant." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and rose to retrieve his coat. "On top of that you might learn a thing or two."

"Assistant? You cancel my holiday not because you need a bloody assistant but because you need me for my warrant-card!" the DI fumed. Standing up as well he blocked Sherlock's path and crossed his arms in front of his chest to prevent himself from strangling the younger Holmes.

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be daft. I don't need your warrant card."

Had the curly-headed consulting detective not turned his back on the policeman that very moment, he would have noticed the slanting of the man's eyes as he was struck by realisation. It was the only outward sign Greg displayed before he rushed forward and manhandled Sherlock to the ground. The DI was used to stroppy customers and within seconds he unearthed one of his old warrant-cards from Sherlock's Belstaff.

Mycroft, who had seen the attack coming and was highly amused by his brother's startled yelp and following struggle, tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk. It earned him a grateful wink from the inspector and a glare from Sherlock. Without another word Greg stood up, dusted off the legs of his trousers and gave the consulting detective an unimpressed look.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you keep getting me in by stealing my warrant-card? Not to mention the paperwork that is involved getting a new one."

Sherlock picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. Producing an insulted sniff he turning up his collar and squeezed past the older man. Before he went down the stairs he turned though and regarded the DI with a surprising air of uncertainty.

"So, are you coming?"

Greg threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "When and where?"

"The train leaves at eight o'clock sharp from platform one, Kings Cross Station. Oh, and bring some clothes you could wear for outdoor activities like hiking."

"Hiking?"

Sherlock disappeared down the stairs before the DI could ask another question.

oOo

Before John had gone to bed he had been handed the typical bag the medics on military missions carried with them. Unpacking it had been a trip down memory lane and getting re-acquainted with the contents had evoked sounds, smells and feelings that troubled him greatly. John had finally fallen asleep in the early morning hours.

Therefore, when his wake-up call came in the form of Jefferson banging at his door, he was bleary eyed and more exhausted than he thought possible. Whatever they had drugged him with needed a very long time to leave his system.

The sky in the east was already turning the pretty shade of rosy orange that heralded the nearness of sunrise when John carried his bag outside to look for Green and the other members of his team.

"Doctor Watson, is that really you?"

John turned towards the man who had addressed him and found himself looking at an Afghan man in his twenties. Dressed in baggy trousers, shirt and vest that were typical for the male population here. He looked familiar.

"Ben … ah … Fani?" John asked.

The man smiled brightly, displaying a row of very white teeth. "Ben Islam Fani, right, Doctor."

John shook hands with the man. Ben had just turned eighteen when he arrived in the British camp all those years ago and John was still in service. As it turned out he was still working as a translator for the army. He told John, that he lived with his wife and two sons not far from the camp.

"What about you, Doctor, do you have family?"

John scratched his head. It was possibly not a good idea to tell the lad that he lived with another man who, as John had discovered only recently, he happened to be in love with.

"Not yet," he said instead, "but I have found my soul-mate and as soon as I return home I plan on turning our relationship in something more than friendship.

"That sounds very good," the young man replied.

"Come on, you two, we need to be on our way," Colonel Green called from the lorry that had been loaded with only a couple of men and equipment. They were travelling under the disguise of a mine disposal team.

Both John and the Afghan hurried to the lorry.

"So, you're coming with us?" John asked.

Ben nodded. "I speak a few dialects which can be useful."

They climbed into the lorry and the vehicle jolted forward. A journey of about six hours lay ahead of them.

* * *

Reviews would be lovely.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun had come up quickly and by noon the cool morning air had heated up to about twenty-five degrees when the lorry reached the village where Said Rahimi lived.

John knew that most people thought Afghanistan was nothing but a grey, sandy landscape but that wasn't true. The village's main street was lined with the typical one storey stone houses with their walled in yards but behind the houses green fields, shrubs and trees were visible and on a meadow a single man was watching over a small flock of sheep.

The street was deserted. Only a couple of curious boys were trying to hide behind a shrub only to be shouted at by their mother or grandmother; covered from head to toe with the typical, blue burka it was impossible to tell the woman's age.

The lorry trundled along the street and eventually stopped in front of a house that didn't look any different than the others.

"We're here," Green said. The soldier looked around carefully before he hopped down to the street and signalled Ben Fani and John to follow. "The rest remain here. Keep your eyes peeled," he ordered his men.

The trio had barely turned towards the house when the door was opened and a man stepped outside. His face wore a carefully neutral expression but his eyes gave away his displeasure.

"Only you!" he commanded, pointing at John.

"It's okay," John said, seeing that Green hesitated.

The men exchanged looks before the Colonel gave John a curt nod. "Be careful and if you're not back in twenty we're coming in."

John followed him inside the house. Without saying a word Rahimi took off his shoes and while the army doctor untied his boots the Afghan walked to a small hearth, picked up an iron jug and poured hot water from it to make tea.

Sitting down on the carpet they sipped the tea silently for a moment before the Afghan spoke up.

"The sole reason why I'm talking to you, Doctor, is because once you have saved my daughter who now has given me a grand-son. You are about to enter very dangerous territory. I might not do you a favour by telling you where to go."

"I don't have much choice and it is important that I complete the mission." John decided that he should have asked Green how much Rahimi knew.

The Afghan poured more tea into their cups before he spoke again. "He who goes into battle with the fear of not coming back usually doesn't."

"I am coming back," John replied, thinking of Sherlock. "I have to," he added quietly.

For a whole minute the Afghan's dark eyes seemed to burn through John's skull, seeking his most inner thoughts. He didn't know if the man was satisfied with what he saw but with a grunt Rahimi stood up and walked to a wooden chest that stood in a dark corner of the room. He opened the chest and took out paper and a pencil. With sure strokes of the pencil the Afghan drew a crude map and when it was done he showed it to John.

"Here," he tapped one bony finger at the name of a village," is where the prisoners are most likely held." Rahimi clearly looked uncomfortable. "If I didn't hate the Taliban more than I hate the British..." He didn't finish the sentence.

John had given up feeling guilty for the army's deeds. He took the paper and folded it carefully. "Thank you for the map. Is there anything else you can tell me? Perhaps somebody we could talk to?"

Rahimi's dark eyes studied the blond doctor. "Abdul might be willing to help but there's no guarantee. He sells pomegranates and other fruit at the market."

"Thank you." John bowed his head slightly. "Thank you very much."

Rahimi produced a grunt. Just when John turned towards the door, the man's voice stopped him. "Doctor, there is an old saying that a crow is clever but look at what it eats."

"How do you mean?" John asked but Rahimi dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Good bye, doctor. You have to leave now. I don't want your comrades coming into my house."

John nodded, pulled on his boots and opened the door, only to find that indeed Colonel Green and one of the soldiers were coming towards the house.

"I'm good," he called out and walked to the lorry. They all climbed in and John handed the map to Green. Ben Fani and Colonel Green studied the map. "From here to Dadi it should take about an hour. The next village is Ajrestan and from there is really only one road going further into the mountains. Making a run for it once we have the prisoners is going to be tricky," the Colonel said.

Fani nodded with a grave expression on his face. "Shame really that we can't use a helicopter."

With a turn of the key the lorry roared to life and then they were off, heading further into the mountains.

While Greg Lestrade was drinking the strongest coffee Nero had been able to provide, he was watching Sherlock, who was sitting next to him in the train to York. The consulting detective's eyes were closed and he was wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Naturally it had taken one glance at the DI for Sherlock to deduce the inspector's and Mycroft's last night's activities. Not that it took a genius to see that the couple hadn't slept more than an hour or two.

A grin curled the corners of Greg's mouth and Sherlock produced a huff.

"Stop thinking. It defiles my brain."

"What does?" Greg asked with the most innocent voice he could muster.

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave him a sidelong glance. "Together you and my brother are one-hundred years old. I don't think you need to prove your no longer present youth by fornicating like rabbits."

A woman in her thirties, who had been sitting on the other side of the aisle, took her bag and left.

Used to Sherlock's quips, the inspector's mind conjured up the mental image of a very dishevelled looking Mycroft. "Bit envious, aren't you?"

"Most certainly not!" Sherlock looked scandalized.

"In that case, unless you want details, you better shut up," Greg told him.

The younger Holmes rubbed his face furiously with both hands and folded his lanky body by drawing his knees up to his chest, as if the position would provide an extra barrier to block the signals he received from the man sitting next to him.

The inspector kept drinking his coffee and glanced every so often at Sherlock, who looked a bit like a large, black praying mantis. When his companion finally seemed more relaxed, Greg nudged him gently.

"How do you know what I'm thinking when you can't even see me?"

Sherlock fixed his rainbow-eyes on the older man's face, who could almost hear the wheels turning in Sherlock's head while the man considered the level of rudeness the DI might tolerate.

"You can hardly walk properly and even your throat is raw. I don't expect a carnal creature like yourself to shake off the image of Mycroft." Sherlock shuddered slightly. "Furthermore you shift in your seat while you're thinking of him and since you're sitting next to me that would be difficult to miss."

The row in front of them had been occupied by a man dressed in a boiler-suit. Now the man got up, shot them a disgusted look and almost ran towards the next carriage.

Greg was fairly certain that he hadn't moved an inch when he thought about Mycroft but Sherlock knew him long enough that he could make an educated guess; not that he would ever admit that he was guessing.

"Very well. Now that we're alone, let's talk about the case."

oOo

While they were heading further into the mountains John considered that technically his job was done but at the same time he knew that it was impossible to return him to Kandahar and continue on the rescue-mission afterwards. He had always been a very dedicated soldier and although he hadn't signed up for this mission of his own accord he would help to the best of his abilities.

The doctor had thought that the map Rahimi had drawn was simple enough but obviously he was wrong. The lorry had stopped at a junction and the driver and Ben were arguing which way to go. Eventually the Afghan climbed out and went to an old man who sat in front of a single house. John watched as the man's dog barked at Ben but then wagged his tail and sniffed their translator's trouser leg while the men were talking and pointing.

The night before they had come up with only one plan that had a small chance of succeeding without getting the hostages killed. Lieutenant Colonel Porco had explained that most likely Prince Harry and the other two men would be held in a small house that would be easy to watch and to defend. Usually the houses in Afghanistan had a trapdoor that led to the roof. They hoped that they would be able to get onto the roof without raising an alarm and liberate the hostages.

Ben came back to the lorry and once he had climbed back inside he admitted somewhat sheepishly that he had been wrong. When the vehicle continued on its way the man and the dog had both disappeared, John noticed. He didn't give it any further thought but wondered if, once the mission had been accomplished, whether he would be able to leave Afghanistan on a regular flight or if he would require the help of the British Government. Since the whole mission began, John had a strange feeling and all of a sudden he missed Sherlock so much it hurt almost physically. Who knew what trouble the lanky detective got into without him. The sooner John got back home the better. An explosion that turned the lorry upside down brought a rather sudden stop to the doctor's musing.

Instinct kept John alive for even though his ears were still ringing from the explosion, he was crawling through the dust as quickly as possible, instinctively dragging his medical bag with him, until he reached a ditch and rolled into it. Another explosion tore the rest of the lorry apart and was showering John with rubble and debris. Then everything went quiet, except for the sound of hissing flames that consumed the inflammable parts of the lorry and its former freight.

Those who had ambushed the lorry would most likely come and look for survivors, wherefore John was crawling through the ditch to bring some distance between himself and the burning wreck. Whoever came to check out the site of the incident had approached from the other side and probably hadn't known how many people had been inside the lorry to begin with. They would undoubtedly search the surroundings area to look for survivors but as the minutes passed, John managed to disappear behind a field large boulders and found a hiding place in a cavity underneath a few sorry looking shrubs without having been seen.

John took the army issue blanket from his bag and covered himself from head to toe. The adrenalin left his system and consequently the army doctor began to tremble slightly. How on earth was he supposed to help the hostages, not to mention to return back home to Sherlock?

oOo

It was late afternoon when Sherlock and his assistant arrived in Pickering, an ancient town in North Yorkshire. Over the past two weeks fifteen burglaries of hairdressing salons had taken place in North Yorkshire. The DI, who was lugging his bag towards a Tudor style house with a small rose garden in front, still didn't understand why these burglaries during which hardly anything had been taken, would lure Sherlock away from his beloved London.

Upon ringing the bell, a small woman with curly hair opened the door.

"Yes?" she asked, eyeballing both men suspiciously.

"My name is Holmes," Sherlock said. "I called yesterday evening."

The woman's face brightened. "Right, Mr. Holmes. I'm Mary-Bell Forder," she introduced herself and ushered them inside. Closing the door she beckoned them to follow her along a corridor and up a narrow staircase. "How nice of you to take your father on a bird-watching tour," the woman chirped.

'Father?' Greg mouthed, shooting Sherlock a murderous look, which the detective decided to ignore.

The woman opened the door to a clean and very neat room with one bed and a settee. Greg made a bee-line for the bed and sat down.

"I presume the settee won't be a problem?" Mrs Forder asked, looking at Sherlock.

"Oh no," Greg answered, before Sherlock had a chance to react. "He certainly won't mind relinquishing the bed to his old man." The DI glared at his travel-companion, daring him to contradict him.

"That's quite right," Sherlock said. He held out his hand for the key and managed to eject the woman from the room with a stern glance.

Once he had taken off his shoes and jacket, Greg rolled onto his back, stretched out on the bed and yawned.

"So, Sherlock, what is so very interesting about these bloody burglaries that you drag me half way across England? Isn't the man who died after his mobile exploded in his breast pocket much more interesting? It did happen around here as well."

"Boring," the detective answered. "Batteries of mobile phones explode often enough. Sometimes the explosion tears off a chunk of flesh but ever so often people get killed."

"Uh-um." The DI dug his mobile out of the pocket of his trousers, deciding that a place further away from body-parts that were still a bit tender anyway, might be a good idea. He placed it on the table next to the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The burglaries are related and there's a much more complex plot but I need more data. Since you are undoubtedly going to surrender to your body's ridiculous demand for sleep I will go out and investigate on my own."

Without further explanation the consulting detective left the room and Greg made a short trip to the bathroom before stretching out on the comfortable bed again. With a grin he reached for his mobile and sent a text to Mycroft.

 _Apparently you're in a relationship with your own father. GL_

The answer arrived less than a minute later.

 _Have you been drinking, Gregory? MH_

The DI yawned again but sent another text.

 _Only coffee. Will explain when I'm back home. Nap now. Gx_

Tossing the phone back onto the bedside table, he rolled over to lie on his side and was asleep even before his text was answered a minute later.

oOo

John waited almost two hours before he dared to move from his hiding place. He crawled out from under the bush but stayed hidden between the boulders for another ten minutes while he listened carefully for any sounds other than the wind. His joints hurt and his muscles were stiff when he finally stood up and scrutinized his surroundings. Detecting nothing out of the ordinary he moved a little further. The mountainside was as far as he could see from his position devoid of enemies and John began stretching until the stiffness had left his limbs.

The army doctor made his way back to the lorry when he felt that he was in a condition again that allowed him to move quickly should need arise.

There wasn't much left of the lorry. Together with the dead bodies of the other soldiers, the metal debris, burned parts of tarpaulin and rubber from the tyres it formed a grizzly picture. John felt sad when he removed one half of the soldiers' dog-tags to store them safely in his bag.

Scrutinizing Colonel Green's dead body John discovered a gunshot wound in the man's temple. Because of the burns on his face it was difficult to make out but John had seen enough bullet holes to be fairly certain that a small calibre fired from close range had caused it. It confused him to no end because he should have heard the shot, shouldn't he? The only explanation he came up with was that Green could have been shot when the second granade hit. The explosion could have drowned the shot of a gun.

John kept circling the lorry but although he found the bodies of all the soldiers he didn't find the body of their translator. It was entirely possible that the body was underneath the wreck or that the man had survived. He could have been taken by their attackers or gone into hiding too. For a moment John considered searching for the man because shouting his name wasn't really an option but he decided against it.

While he had been lying in hiding John had had enough time to review his situation. He couldn't be much further than a couple of miles from the village where the hostages supposedly were held. Miraculously he had not only survived the attack but had merely suffered a few bruises. Walking to their initial destination was possible and maybe he even would be able to liberate the hostages.

Adjusting the straps of his medical bag so now he could use it as a backpack he set off towards the village.

Twice he thought he had seen the reflection of a pair of binoculars and in succession had dived behind a boulder or in a dusty trench to avoid being shot but all had remained silent.

The army-doctor could just make out the roof of a house when all of a sudden he was attacked by a man who had been hiding behind a thorny shrubbery. With aptitude many much younger men would envy him for, John threw his attacker off. Ready to deliver a devastating blow to the man's face he stopped at the very last moment when he recognized the startled face of Ben Fani.


	3. Chapter 3

"Bloody hell!" John swore and stood up slowly.

"I thought you were dead like the others," the Afghan said, accepting the offered hand to help him up.

"I've been hiding," the doctor replied while he studied Ben from head to toe. "You got away quite undamaged."

Ben showed him the ripped sleeve of his shirt and a minor cut underneath. "That's about the whole extend of my injuries. And I sprained my right ankle a little."

When John automatically knelt down to inspect the ankle he also noticed the slightly singed trouser leg. The ankle was not swollen and Ben seemed to be able to put his full weight onto his foot.

"So," John straightened up, "what were you planning to do now?"

The Afghan shrugged. "I thought I walk to the village and see if there was anything I could do about the capture of the four men."

"Sounds good to me," the army doctor replied. Slapping the younger man's shoulder he motioned for him to sit on a boulder a few metres from the road. "Maybe together we're going to have a chance to free the prisoners. Do you think you could enter the village and find out where they're kept? Unlike you I stick out like a sore thumb."

Ben nodded. "I can do that. Do you want to wait here? This shrub makes a rather good hideout."

John smirked, thinking how he had overlooked the man although he thought he had been paying attention to his surroundings.

"That's a good idea."

Without further ado Ben got up and walked towards the village, leaving John alone with the thought that something he couldn't quite put his finger on was wrong.

oOo

It took Mycroft two hours of quizzing members of the Ministry of Defence to find out that the State Secretary Irving Levine was behind John Watson's deployment. A call to Sherlock disclosed the fact that Levine held a grudge because many years ago the younger Holmes had helped putting Levine's son behind bars. Said son had ambushed and raped four woman within a single week and he had only been caught because of the ash from the cigars he smoked. Seemed like Sherlock's obsession with tobacco ash had been good for something; but since it hadn't gone unnoticed that the famous detective was very fond of his blogger John Watson, Levine had decided that the ex army doctor's deployment would not only help in the crisis but upset Sherlock. Without the grudge the man held, John would have been asked and, had he declined, ordered to go to Afghanistan instead of been lured into a government issue limousine, drugged and shipped off like a parcel.

Levine looked smug, probably because he had misread the twitch of one elegant ginger eyebrow to be a sign that Mycroft Holmes thought the whole affair was negligible. His expression changed however, when he became the target of the government official's cold stare.

"You might want to begin packing, Mr. Levine. You shall receive orders about your new assignment within the hour."

Walking out of Levine's office without another word, Mycroft wondered how many British citizens he needed to deport to Kamchatka before it could be considered a British colony.

oOo

Over the course of the afternoon Sherlock had talked to three owners of hairdressing salons and along the way he had solved the case of six missing cats. The cat-owners had been quick in pointing accusing fingers at a young black man, certain he had used their pets for some voodoo ritual. Instead Sherlock had found proof that a family of half-tame raccoons some clueless do-gooder had freed from a zoo and abandoned at Pickering's outskirts were to blame.

Now, cold from a strong wind, the consulting detective barged into the room he and Greg Lestrade were sharing, disturbing his alleged father's slumber in the process.

"The burglaries all took place between ten at night and two o'clock in the morning. You have another two hours to recharge," Sherlock announced to the bleary eyed inspector, who promptly slumped back with a groan.

Shaking his head Sherlock hung up is Belstaff and scarf and threw himself onto the sofa bed which protested with an alarming creak. Once he had moulded himself into his usual thinking-position, Sherlock reviewed what he had learned about the case so far. At least he tried.

Under normal circumstances Sherlock's mind was more than capable to concentrate on the matter at hand and effortlessly blocked all interfering thoughts. Today though it was different. Again and again his thoughts were turning to John and he couldn't help but wonder how the blond doctor was faring, what he was doing at this very moment and, most important, if he was all right.

When Mycroft had called earlier to ask about Levine, the consulting detective had been aghast that his best friend had to suffer yet again because of a case that he, Sherlock, had solved. This relationship, this friendship, left him feeling exposed and completely vulnerable.

His eyes flicked over to the policeman who was still lying on the bed but was now busy typing on his mobile. From the DI's besotted expression and the soft chuckles he produced every so often it was clear that he was conversing with Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed. How his brother and Lestrade managed to maintain a relationship that was based on love, the ultimate chemical defect, he couldn't begin to fathom but for as long as he knew both men he had never seen them happier.

Clearly he and John were close friends but the longing Sherlock felt aching in his chest made him consider his feelings. Maybe the attraction had begun as a shy little blossom the moment the doctor had handed him his mobile on the day they first met but it had been growing ever since and what he felt now was clearly beyond friendship. Perhaps his brother had been right and he who called himself a high functioning sociopath was in fact hopelessly in love.

oOo

While Sherlock waited for nightfall to find distraction from those disconcerting thoughts it was already dark in Afghanistan and John, still huddled in the hollow behind the shrub, was beginning to feel the dry, cold air typical of a higher altitude. All the half-moon provided was silvery light but no warmth.

Wrapped in his army blanket John's thoughts kept skipping back and forth between Sherlock and Ben Fani and the latter's behaviour. Could it be that he wasn't the friendly translator John and the others thought he was? The doctor shook his head. No, Ben hated the Taliban, had even killed three during an attack on a British camp. Something was wrong but he couldn't put a finger on what it was that bothered him. John almost growled in frustration.

'You see but you don't observe!' A small voice in his head kept taunting him.

Suddenly an idea began to form in his mind but before he could follow this train of thought, the Afghan returned.

"I apologize that I have been away for so long but I thought you might like something to drink and eat," Ben said to John, handing him a small package with bread and a plastic bottle of Coca Cola. "This took some time to acquire."

The doctor had never been a friend of the sweet soft drink but right now the sugar and caffeine was exactly what he needed. Hungrily he wolfed down the bread and emptied the bottle before he even thought of thanking Ben for both.

The young man had sat down cross-legged and waited for the doctor to finish his meal before he spoke up. "I found the house in which the prisoners are held. As far as I could see there are two guards at the door and one is on top of the roof. If we could surprise the man on the roof I guess we might have a chance but I don't see how."

John rubbed is chin. He actually had an idea. "I wonder if the men watching the prisoners are devout men who attend every prayer time."

The Afghan's swallowed hard when he understood the meaning of the army doctor's words. "You... you would attack during prayer?"

John shrugged. "I respect the people's beliefs but in my opinion that's the only chance we have."

Ben thought it through and although he was quite obviously unhappy with the idea he nodded eventually. "I think the guards won't expect an attack and will be praying all at the required time. There is the prayer in the early morning hours as well as before sunrise. If we manage to get inside the house during the early prayer we might be able to escape during the prayer before sunrise but I doubt it'll give us much of a head start."

Once they had agreed on the plan both men walked closer to the village. It wasn't far and even though they exercised particular care they were hidden a mere one-hundred metres from the guarded house soon. Lying in the shadow of a low wall they were watching the guards for almost an hour before John nudged Ben's shoulder and signalled him by cocking his head that they withdrew to finalize their plan.

Ben knew that the time for the next prayer would be at 4.30. Fortunately the guards would face the other direction once they knelt and as long as John and Ben managed to stay completely silent they would be capable of knocking out the guard on the roof. Neither men said that it would be necessary to kill the guard but they both knew. The idea was that then they'd open the trapdoor and Ben would lower John down to help ready the prisoners for escape. Until the next prayer time Ben would try to pretend to be the guard on the roof and when the time came he would help them to escape. Hopefully the prisoners were in a condition to flee on foot.

Ben and John crept closer to the house again and after what seemed like another hour they watched the guards prepare for their prayer. Obviously they didn't expect an attack because all three of them knelt down at their respective positions and began to chant softly.

Like a flash John and Ben were directly behind the building and John was racing up the wooden ladder. When he arrived on the top of the roof he immediately grabbed the praying guard's head and broke his neck in one swift motion. The guards in front of the house hadn't heard anything. Only moments later Ben arrived on the rooftop. He opened the trapdoor and held the rope for John to climb down. Careful not to fall, the doctor sat his foot into the sling they had tied and with a curd nod he disappeared into the darkness. Just when he was no longer able get a hold of the anything but the rope, Ben whispered "sorry," and let go of the rope. With a startled cry John fell into the darkness, slamming onto the ground with a thud.

Ben Islam Fani grinned and closed the trapdoor. He didn't care about the dead guard, who's neck the British soldier had snapped. His mission was done and another prisoner secured. When he stood up though to climb down from the roof the guards, who had been alerted by the sound John had made falling, were ready and shot Ben in the head. The Afghan's body slumped down lifelessly.

The shots had alerted the people in the village and within minutes eight heavily armed man had surrounded the house. Two men climbed to the rooftop. They checked on their dead comrade and then searched Ben Fani's clothes before they threw his dead body down to the ground. Pointing their guns at the trapdoor they signalled the other men that the roof was secure and that they could go in. Armed with guns and torches two men opened the door and entered the prison.

oOo

After several days of rain it was finally dry weather again and Mycroft actually walked the distance from the Ministry of Defence back to his office instead of using a limousine. With a smile he read the texts Gregory sent him and stopped every once in a while to type an answer.

The government official admitted to himself that he was more than just a little grateful that his brother had cancelled the inspector's holiday in Italy. The DI had booked the week in Tuscany two months before he and Mycroft had become an item and somehow neither men had come up with the idea of cancelling it.

Of course, Mycroft took some time off every few months to recharge his own batteries but the idea of a holiday together with Gregory almost made him tremble with anticipation. An appointment at the UN was due in two weeks which usually meant that he would spend two days in long meetings followed by another two or three days in New York with nothing on his agenda. The room at the Ritz Carlton across from Central Park would be fully paid already and the idea of spending some days with Gregory, who to his knowledge hadn't been in New York before, prowling the big city was quite appealing.

It would be almost time for Christmas shopping and the thought made Mycroft shudder. But then the Ritz had very comfortable beds and he was confident he could distract Gregory successfully.

With a smile and a spring in his step Mycroft arrived at his office. The smile on is face disappeared though when he found Anthea was waiting for him with tea and a piece of chocolate cake. It triggered all of Mycroft's alarms. An offering of chocolate cake equalled the United States going to DEFCON 2.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked with trepidation, accepting the offered tea but ignoring the cake.

"The mission in Afghanistan failed. The group that was sent on the rescue mission is missing."

"And John Watson?"

"No sign of him either."

It took only seconds for Mycroft to make a decision. "Get me onto the next flight to either Kabul or Islamabad." He downed the tea with uncharacteristic haste before he left the office again. "I need to pack."

Anthea watched her boss walk out. When he said he needed to pack she knew that she couldn't book him on a commercial flight because whatever he took along would never pass regular airport security.

oOo

Fortunately for John the house wasn't very high and he had landed on top of a blanket that softened his fall a little. For a moment there was confusion in the darkness but the doctor had been quick to turn on a pocket torch which illuminated the face of three prisoners, one of them Prince Harry. Although the three prisoners looked startled they quickly caught up with the situation.

John looked into the faces that showed the stress of the past days. So much for freeing them.

"The guards will come in as soon as they have backup," a blond man with a heavy German accent said. "You need to hide somewhere."

"There is nowhere to hide," Harry said. "They will search the whole room." John swept the light of the small torch over the cell. A few blankets on the ground and two buckets in a corner. There was no hiding place. But then he pointed the pocket torch upwards and found a place, probably the only place in the room where he might be able to hide for a bit. Beams supported the ceiling and the space between the wall above the door and the first beam was big enough that he could squeeze in between. The question was how long his muscles were able to hold him there and whether the guards would look up. The prisoners followed his line of sight and nodded.

They left John's bag lying in the middle of the room underneath the trapdoor, hoping it would explain the sound the guards had undoubtedly heard coming from inside the room.

Both the Prince and the German man helped John to climb into the niche and when they were certain he had found foot- and handholds they withdrew their support. The other man, who had been silent until then and had held the small pocket light, climbed up to John with the help of the German and as soon as he had switched off the light he put it into a pocket of John's trousers. Engulfed into complete darkness the prisoners hurried back to their blankets. No sooner than they had sat down the door flew open and the guards entered.

John tried to breath as shallowly as possible. Within a minute his muscles made it clear that the body they supported was not Spiderman. Feet, knees, shoulders, elbows and hands pressed against the wall and the beam, John felt his body beginning to shake. He couldn't risk moving to adjust his position for fear that he'd make a sound that let the guards look up. John watched the two men search the prisoners who hurried to take off their clothes so the inspection would take as little time as possible. If the guards considered their behaviour peculiar, they didn't let on.

One of the guards pointed his torch towards the closed trapdoor but since he stood with his back to the doctor he didn't detect him. With a grunt the guards picked up the medical back and left the room. No sooner had the door been closed and locked, the prisoners got up and hurried to help John down. The muscles in his left shoulder had cramped and John had bitten his lower lip to a bloody mess in order to avoid making a sound.

Exhaustion claimed the army doctor and the other prisoners covered him with a blanket to let him rest for a while. John was alive for now but he wouldn't be able to hide forever and most likely this very morning a group of Taliban would arrive to inspect the group. They would discover the identity of the VIP John and the others had planned to rescue and they would find the army doctor himself. For now nothing could stop John Watson from feeling completely miserable so he pulled the blanket over his head and withdrew to his sparsely furnished mind-palace to find solace.

* * *

I discovered the information on prayer times on the internet. It might not be accurate but I hope that in this case you'll forgive me.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade came back to their B & B an hour before dawn. The consulting detective was ranting and raving because not only had the burglar been a no-show but on top of that Sherlock couldn't understand why he'd stood them up. The DI shushed him ever so often for it wouldn't help to wake up and aggravate the whole neighbourhood but in his heart the only thing he cared about right now was a hot shower or bath. Right now he felt as if freezing one's butt of was more than just a figure of speech. Damage on this particular body part, which Mycroft considered an outstanding feature, would not be appreciated.

However, upon arrival, Sherlock stormed into the bathroom before his designated assistant/ father even managed to shut the door to their room. The tell-tale click of the key in the bathroom's door lock sounded like the final verdict because it was very likely that the younger Holmes would use up all the hot water.

Instead of fretting, the inspector accepted his fate and decided that the next best thing was a very hearty breakfast with plenty of piping hot coffee. Perhaps by the time he returned there would be hot water again. It was almost seven and in the village he had seen a café that had looked just like the place he wanted.

The inspector returned an hour later and not only was his stomach pleasantly full with bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, he had also learned what might have been the explanation for their burglar not showing up during the night. The feeling that for once he might know more than Sherlock was very good indeed.

Sherlock hadn't taken a shower but he had sat down on the closed toilet's seat after he had locked himself in. Curious, although he was very familiar with Lestrade, Sherlock felt the need to be alone while John's presence hardly ever bothered him. On the contrary. Usually the jumper-clad man soothed his frazzled nerves by just smiling or offering to make a cuppa Sherlock often didn't even touch.

Another person might have sent a silent prayer to the powers that be to bring John Watson home but Sherlock knew that in a way the recipient in the person of his brother Mycroft was already on his way to Afghanistan to do just that. Just before midnight the inspector and Sherlock had received a text with the news that the elder Holmes was on his way east. The information had unsettled the DI's mind but it had soothed Sherlock's because knowing that the British government soon would be present in John's corner certainly tipped the scales in the doctor's favour.

oOo

Twenty minutes was all John had needed to recuperate. Throwing off his blanket he switched on his pocket torch.

"Feeling better?" Harry asked softly.

"Yes, thank you."

The German handed John a plastic bottle of water. "Water is actually the only thing we've got enough of," he told the army doctor who accepted the bottle and drank greedily.

"My name is Alexander Schubert," the German introduced himself.

"Captain John Watson," John replied.

"Pascal Chaunu," the third man said. He was obviously French and had been quiet until now.

"Wasn't there a fourth man?" John asked.

Harry nodded. "José Rivera. He was wounded during the ambush and died the following day." He cocked his head to one side. "Did you come here to rescue us?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm what's left of the small team that was supposed to rescue you," John said before he told them what had happened and the little he knew.

"The Taliban will be thrilled when they find me here." The Prince's voice was composed but a slight tremor spoke of his anxiety for he knew what would happen once the Taliban recognized him. Quick death would be the least he had to expect.

The men fell silent because there was nothing to say and John switched off the light again to save the batteries.

Neither could say how much time had passed when a howling sound startled them. "Get down," both John and Harry shouted. They had military training and knew how an incoming grenade sounded.

They all threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads with their arms and seconds later all hell broke loose.

Outside screams could be heard between explosions of grenades. John wondered momentarily if this was an attempt to rescue them but with each passing second it became clear that this attack had only one purpose; the destruction of the whole village.

A grenade hit the house they were in. The roof began to crumble but the explosion also blasted the door open. All four men scrambled to their feet and raced outside right before the roof collapsed. They didn't have time to check if somebody was pointing a weapon in their direction. All they could do was run through the grey morning light, trying to get away from the explosions and chaos.

Out of the corners of his eye John spotted an armoured vehicle that looked very much like one of the British Jackals. The machine gun in the vehicle was manned and the trooper working the gun efficiently killed people who ran – men, women and children.

There was nothing he could do without a weapon and as much as he hated it, John fled with the others. Running as fast as their legs would carry them, the four men were heading further into the mountains where boulders and ditches would provide cover. Alexander Schubert who was running right next to John was shot in the head and fell down without making a sound. John sped up further and dodged a bullet that flew past his head. He kept making rapid changes of direction while running because although those manoeuvres slowed him down he would be more difficult to hit. Prince Harry, being younger, quite a bit taller and therefore equipped with longer legs, raced ahead of him.

John had no idea how long he ran but eventually his strength wore out and he noticed that the sounds of shots and screams had faded to eerie silence. He slowed to a walk and took the time to look around. The Prince was standing bent over, breathing as heavily as John after his flight.

After a couple of minutes of panting and coughing from the exertion they sat down behind an outcrop, hidden from view should someone have followed them.

"Chaunu was shot," Harry said, his tone of voice revealing that he was affected by the man's death.

"Schubert too," John told him, noticing how the young man winced.

"They were good men," Harry said after a moment.

The army doctor nodded. Looking at Harry he noticed blood at his shirt. "You're hurt," he said and went to have a closer look.

Peeling the bloodied shirt away from the prince's side it became clear that he had been hit by flying shrapnel. The wound wasn't too bad but without any means to treat it properly the blood would keep flowing and there was a chance it would get infected. They needed to get out of the mountains sooner rather than later.

With his pen-knife John cut the Prince's t-shirt into strips for a makeshift dressing. Looking at the wound the doctor finally understood what had been wrong with the injury he had seen at Ben Fani's forearm. The cutting direction of the injury had been inconsistent with the cut in the man's shirtsleeve, suggesting that he had probably damaged his shirt and then injured himself to convince John that he had been a victim too. And when Ben had insisted he should ask for directions he had talked to a man he knew. The man's dog had probably wagged its tail because it knew their scout.

Gritting his teeth because he had failed to make the connection until now, John finished dressing Harry's wound.

"Any idea who would attack the village?" John asked when he was satisfied with his handy work.

His companion shook his head. " I have no idea but I doubt the Taliban are responsible. I suspect another of the more influential groups could be responsible. They had one of our Jackals."

'So,' John thought, 'I haven't been mistaken.'

Both men glanced in the direction they had come from before they exchanged looks. "Want to go back?" Harry asked.

"I don't think it is wise. You could still get caught and your injury needs treatment." Seeing the young man's expression John added, "maybe we'll find means of transportation back there."

Both he and the Prince were exhausted and had every reason to walk the other way but being the men they were, they went back to help the people who had been attacked. The army doctor kept a close eye on the Prince, aware of the man's injury but he seemed to be all right for now.

With utmost care they approached the village or what was left of it. Transfixed they took in the destruction they were confronted with.  
Destroyed houses, a few burning vehicles and nothing but dead people and animals. Those who had attacked the village had left, leaving the Englishmen alone with only death and destruction. They found the dead bodies of the men who had guarded the prisoners. Not far away an old man who had obviously protected with his body his only possession, a goat, was lying in the dirt. Both the man and the goat had been shot in the head. The lifeless bodies of three women and five children were piled up amidst the burning remains of a wooden pen.

Why anyone would want to kill those people was beyond John's comprehension. He checked every single body they found while the Prince kept watch but it seemed that the attackers had been very thorough in their terrible deed.

However, in one house they discovered an old moped with its tank partly filled and while Harry was pushing the moped outside, John heard a small whimper.  
First he didn't see anything but then the whimper came again from above and to his surprise he discovered a basket that was hanging from the ceiling in a dark corner. Inside the basket he discovered a baby that couldn't be much older than a week. Without food the baby soon would be as dead as its parents. There was no time to loose.

Wrapping the baby in a blanket, John went outside where Harry started the moped's engine. Harry folded his long frame onto the small vehicle, leaving just barely enough space for John to sit and with the baby cradled in his arms there was really no room for him.

"That won't work," Harry said. He killed the moped's engine and motioned John to dismount before he did the same. "Can you drive this?" he asked the doctor.

No, John couldn't drive a moped. He didn't even have a driver's license to begin with. Something he swore he would change as soon as he was back in London.

Thinking only for a moment, Harry went back inside the house and came back moments later with a long shawl. "I'm an uncle, you know," he told John before taking the baby from the doctor and tying it with the shawl to his body. Within two minutes the tiny body was tied securely to the  
prince's broad frame, kept warm by the man's body heat.

They climbed back onto the moped and all John could do was cling to the driver while they drove away at a breakneck speed.

oOo

Only after he had had his shower Greg Lestrade broke the news to Sherlock that the police in Yorkshire had conducted random breathalyser tests on drivers the night before. The consulting detective agreed that this much police presence on the roads would have spooked their burglar. Furthermore it convinced him that they might require means of transportation if they wanted not only to catch the burglar in the act but follow him to his lair.

During his investigation the day before Sherlock had found out that the stolen goods, that had only been declared as 'other chemical products' in the police reports, were in fact bottles of hydrogen peroxide, a substance that could be used to build explosives. The acquisition of large quantities of hydrogen peroxide was closely monitored. So for someone who wanted to evade detection stealing the chemicals in the guise of profit-oriented burglary might be time-consuming but certainly an option.

While the DI was snoring into his pillow, Sherlock borrowed his credit-card and slipped quietly out of their room to rent a car.

* * *

 _This chapter is a bit shorter than the other ones but it was the appropriate moment to make a cut._


	5. Chapter 5

The moped carried its load of two grown men and a baby for a distance of about sixty kilometres before it ran out of petrol. They had made very good progress but to John the mountains didn't look any different than those they had left behind. Setting off on foot John was carrying the bundle with the baby now because Harry was looking pale and his breathing was getting more and more laboured. The material of his shirt was soaked with blood and it was only a matter of timebefore the younger man would be unable to continue.

The men had walked for the better part of an hour when a village came into view. They stopped and looked at each other. There was no way to know how they would be received. Most Afghans were kind and peaceful people who didn't want war but there were radical people, that didn't look any different.

Harry was in no condition to run away should need arise but leaving him behind to hide was not an option. It would only raise suspicion if John had to come back, should the people in the village be willing to help.

Before they continued on their way though, John cut off a piece of the shawl. He pressed it to the Prince's side, where the dressing as well as the shirt were already drenched in blood, and wrapped it around Harry's head as if he suffered from a head-wound too. Once John had skilfully disguised Harry's face and thereby his identity, they walked towards the village.

A group of children were the first who caught sight of them. Harry was clad in what once had been a suit, John wearing the uniform of the British army. The children ran towards a house and shouting in excitement, or maybe in fear, they quickly alerted some adults. Three men came out of a house and stood there with unreadable expressions while John and Harry slowly came closer.

One of the Afghans spoke English. "What do you want here? Did you come to destroy another village?"

Both John and Harry were surprised that out here, where means of communication seemed to be rare at best, the people would already know about the village they just came from. Unless other villages had been destroyed too.

"We had nothing to do with the destruction of any village," John said, noticing that Harry had trouble remaining on his feet. "I'm a doctor and my friend has been injured when we fled from those who killed our companions and blew up the lorry we travelled with."

"There is nothing here for you. Leave. Now!"

Two other men came out of a house, one carrying a sub-machine gun.

"Please," John begged, "at least give us some water. And something for the baby." Gently he padded the bundle he was carrying.

The man who had talked to them was obviously translating John's words for the others when one of them turned, went inside a house and came back a minute later with two water-bottles.

Both John and Harry thanked the men and drained the bottles thirstily.

"Is it your child?" the man, who took the empty bottles from them, asked.

"No." Harry shook his head. "We discovered it in the village not far from where the lorry was destroyed."

"Show me," the Afghan with the gun demanded.

John took a step backwards. "You're not going to hurt the baby, are you?"

Apparently he had said the right thing because suddenly the Afghans relaxed visibly. In answer to one man's shout two women, dressed in the typical burka, came from a house; one was holding a baby in her arms. John showed her the baby he carried and immediately she handed her own to the other woman and took the baby from John. She said something in Pashto or Dari to the Afghan men and before John or Harry could react she hurried away with the child.

"Hey!" John shouted angrily.

"You leave. The baby is ours. She will take good care of it." The man indicated with a nod of his head the house both women had disappeared in.

Not happy with the situation John turned towards Harry just in time to prevent him from falling to the ground. The Prince's face was pale and sweaty.

"I need to get him to a clinic," John told the Afghans, who consequently chatted among themselves for a moment.

"The next city is Naw Abad. You will find a clinic there," John was told.

One man left and came back a minute later with a cart. The cart was simply built but at least it had rubber-tires. With the army doctor's help Harry climbed onto the cart. He was wincing because the position further aggravated his side but there was nothing they could do but leave. Although he was only half conscious the Prince gave an apologetic smile. From what John had learned during the short time he had spent with Harry it was clear that the young man was embarrassed that he was such a burden.

Right before they set off a man approached them. Handing them a small package with food and another two bottles with water, he spoke to them in broken English, "Thank you for baby. Wife lost baby. Safe."

It wasn't the best situation but what would happen to the child if they brought it to a clinic? It would end like one of the other numerous orphans and here it would grow up loved and cared for, in an environment it belonged to.

John nodded his understanding, thanked the man for the food and pressed his weight against the cart to set it in motion.

People tended to underestimate the army doctor because of his build and kind face when in fact he had the strength and determination of a bull; not to mention the aggression. His strength as well as his determination were the qualities he would need to rely on for the next hours.

They had been told that by foot it would take approximately three hours to get to Naw Abad. That estimate didn't take into account that John had to negotiate a handcart with a fully grown man on board. Walking up-hill he had to pull or push the cart, downhill he needed to prevent it from accelerating and consequently toppling over.

The army doctor walked relentlessly and concentrated only on the road right in front of him. He didn't dare stop and rest, afraid he wouldn't be able to get up again.

During their journey Harry faded in and out of consciousness. John fed him a little water but he kept the food for himself. Harry would need surgery which was safer on an empty stomach and furthermore John needed the food to get the man to safety to begin with.

Two hours passed, then three. His feet hurt, the muscles in his arms and legs were almost shaking from the excessive strain but the blond army doctor kept on walking. Perseverance was John's second name and persevere he would.

After four hours and ten minutes the first houses of Naw Abad came into view. Until then they hadn't met any people but as soon as they reached the outskirts of the city the streets were busy. Unfortunately, the British army seemed to be very unpopular in Naw Abad for many people were shouting at him, shaking their fists or even spat at his feet. When one woman actually picked up a rock and threw it his way, John decided to do something about his appearance.

Since Afghan clothing for men would raise suspicion because blond Afghans with Caucasian features were non existence, there was really only one solution. When John discovered a burka attached to a washing line, he took it and quickly put it on. It had its advantages to stand only five foot and 6.5 inches tall. Sherlock would have been hard pressed to find an ankle-length burka.

Sherlock. Awash with a longing so strong that made his eyes water, John took a deep breath and quickened his steps. He wanted to get the Prince to safety and right afterwards he wanted to go home. Sod eating and sleeping. All he wanted was to see his friend's face as soon as possible.

Harry was dressed in civilian clothing and once the doctor had wrapped another strip of cloth around his head he wasn't recognisable as a European man unless somebody took a closer look.

The restricted field of vision was a clear hindrance though. John couldn't begin to fathom how women dressed in a burka weren't bumping into people constantly. With as much speed as he could muster, he stumbled along the main road until he caught sight of the red cross that indicated a hospital.

Two soldiers were guarding the entrance to the hospital, which apparently was run by the German Bundeswehr. The soldiers pointed their guns at him, when John approached them. He stopped and struggled out of the burka to reveal his identity. However, the soldiers's expressions didn't get any friendlier.

"This man needs medical help," John said. "He had been wounded in an explosion." That got the soldier's attention. One turned around, shouted something in German and only seconds later two paramedics came running with a stretcher. John helped to load Harry, who finally lost consciousness completely.

John wanted to follow Harry into the hospital but the soldiers blocked his way.

"What the fuck..?" John cursed.

"I'm sorry," one of the soldiers said. "We are under orders not to allow any British soldier into the hospital unless he's injured in such a manner that he needs medical attention."

"I left England less than three days ago," John said, his voice deadly quiet. "Nobody mentioned that Germany and England broke off diplomatic relations."

One of the soldiers apparently took pity on John. "It is suspected that a British convoy attacked a village in the mountains and killed the inhabitants. Accusations have been made against a team that had been sent allegedly to free prisoners. Investigations are under way so everything should be back to normal within a few days."

Suddenly John felt sick to his stomach. "What happens to the team-members once they are found?"

The soldier cocked his head. "They are transferred to the authorities and probably will be held in a military prison until investigations are over."

John nodded. Under no circumstances would he reveal his identity now. "Is there a chance for me to make a phone-call?" He asked.

The soldiers exchanged looks but then one of them nodded. The man led John inside the hospital and showed him a small room with an honest to God rotary dialer phone.

Now that he was inside the warm hospital John began to shake with exhaustion. He lowered himself into the chair in front of the table with the phone, not certain he would manage to get up any time soon.

"You haven't given me a name yet," the soldier said.

"Murray. Captain Bill Murray," John lied.

"All right, Captain Murray. I'll wait outside. You don't have to dial a zero to get an outside line." The man left and John dialled Mycroft Holmes' number.

The call was directed to Mycroft's assistant, Anthea. John knew the woman would recognize his voice so in case somebody was listening he stuck to the name Murray, told her about his location and that the missing VIP was alive and currently undergoing surgery in the German hospital in Naw Abad.

"I see," Anthea replied when he had finished. "Try to stay inside the hospital for the night. Help is under way."

Before he could ask any questions, she hung up. Leaning back John let out a sigh. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and promptly fell asleep. Completely exhausted he didn't hear the soldier come back nor did he even feel it when the man carefully reached under his shirt and looked at the dog-tags he wore. With a soft huff the soldier left the sleeping man inside the office but locked the door.

The night went on with John sleeping soundly in the office and two German soldiers were keeping watch in front of the door. The window was locked and right next to the entrance of the hospital. With two soldiers at watch round the clock there was no need to second another soldier.

It was three o'clock when two men in typical Afghan clothes approached the hospital. One was limping badly, the other man was half carrying his comrade. The moment they arrived at the door and in front of the soldiers, two other men who had been hiding in the dark unnoticed, attacked the Germans from behind. Within seconds the German soldiers were lying on the ground unconscious. Quickly the four newcomers pried the window open. Two of them climbed inside the office and before John Watson woke up, he was gagged and bound. A bag was placed over John's head and while he struggled he was handed through the window to the men waiting outside.

The four men, now carrying the British army doctor, left as quietly as they had come. A block from the hospital the package that was John Watson was thrown into the boot of a car with diplomatic registration plates of the Russian embassy.

When the German soldiers woke up and raised the alarm, the car with John Watson inside was on its way to a secret military base belonging to the Russians, half way between Naw Abad and Kabul.

oOo

It was evening in Pickering when Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes left the Bed & Breakfast. Sherlock wanted to check out the gardens and backyards in the vicinity of the hairdressers salons in the dark and the inspector planned on getting something to eat before he'd settle down for the night at the agreed spot. He had been assured by his travel companion that he had found him a really good blanket which would not only keep him warm but would also ward off unwanted attention. Perhaps the silver-haired man should have been a bit more suspicious, especially since he knew Sherlock for so long but somehow he managed to blot out the subtext of what the young Holmes said.

Therefore, when the DI arrived at his place, a gateway with an iron-worked wooden door that lead to the yard of a scrap metal company that had closed down some months ago. The gateway provided slight protection from the cold wind but not from the low temperatures. Upon arrival Greg detected in one corner under the gateway something that looked like a dead seal and smelled accordingly. Pulling a paper tissue from a pocket, he lifted the bundle and discovered that it wasn't a rotting carcass but a blanket.

Greg was still studying the blanket with disgust when he felt the phone vibrating in his pocket.

'It'll keep you warm and nobody will think that you are working for the police. SH'

'The only possibility to remove the stench from my clothes, once there was physical contact with this blanket, is to burn them. GL'

'How can one be so touchy? SH'

'You hide under the blanket and I take your position on the roof. GL'

'No time. Sbdy is coming. SH'

With a soft curse the DI quickly sat down with his back against the gate and covered himself with the stinking blanket. The first tentative breaths he took almost made him gag but in his line of duty he came across rotting corpses often enough that his smell receptors had, if that was possible, developed calluses.

A minute passed, then two. Nothing happened.

After another minute his phone vibrated.

'Wasn't so difficult after all, was it?' SH

Reading the message Greg got so very frustrated that he was at a loss for words. Sherlock was right. He was a confirmed idiot for he was taken in by him again and again. Answering with a litany of swearwords would have no effect because they would bounce off Sherlock. All he could do was sulk and that's what he did.

The hours passed and Sherlock, who stood silent watch on top of a roof, hidden from view by a chimney, began to wonder what could have happened that his unknown suspect would stand him up another night. But at almost two o'clock a man came walking along the street. He was walking casually but Sherlock was in no doubt that this was the man they were waiting for.

Without taking the phone from the pocket of his coat he quickly typed a message to alert the inspector.


	6. Chapter 6

Just a short chapter tonight for those who are worrying about John Watson's wellbeing.

* * *

Commander Juri Nicolajewitch Komarow was shaking in his boots with fear. The cold eyes of Colonel Anatoly Mikhaylov stared at him while Komarow studied the papers from Army General Zelin. It was well known that test pilot Mikhaylov was a favourite of Zelin. Disobeying Mikhaylov meant going against the Army General himself. Still, what the pilot demanded today was clearly outside normal limits.

Naturally the Commander had no idea that the man he was facing wasn't Anatoly Mikhaylov but Mycroft Holmes. The real Mikhaylov had been a nuisance for quite a while now so the incarnation of the British Government had decided to combine business with pleasure by removing the man from the premises and bringing John Watson home in the process.

"Colonel Mikhaylov, I really can't give you the T-50 for the test flight. I haven't received orders.."

"The incompetence of those who were supposed to deliver them is hardly my fault," Mycroft said. "Why don't you give General Zelin a call and get permission."

Komarow wasn't fond of the idea. Calling the General usually meant more trouble than it was worth. On top of that it was four o'clock in the morning in Moscow, not to mention that he had been notified about the test pilot's visit in order take the latest prototype of the Sukhoi PAK FA for a flight over the Afghan mountains.

What bothered Komarow was the person the pilot intended to take along in the second seat. Not only had Mikhaylov failed to provide the necessary papers but on top of that he had used his rank to deploy four Russian agents to fetch the man from a Bundeswehr hospital in Naw Abad.

With an exasperated sigh Mycroft pulled out a phone and dialled a number in Moscow. Once he had a connection, he handed Komarow his phone. Anthea had expected the call that had been directed to her. Her knowledge of the Russian language wasn't as complete as Mycroft's but it was more than enough to pass for an employee in the Army General's office. She provided all the required security codes and Komarow received clearance to allow Mikhaylov as well as the mysterious stranger who had yet to arrive to take the T-50 for a test flight.

"Very well," Komarow said. "Let's go outside. The T-50 needs to be refuelled and I presume your co-pilot should arrive any minute." The question about the co-pilot's identity was clearly audible.

"The information is classified."

"Of course, it is," the Commander sighed.

The car with John Watson just rolled towards the hangar they were standing in front of. Mycroft tried to suppress a smile when the army doctor was freed from the gag and his bindings. Had John been a terrier, he would have bitten every ankle within a radius of one-hundred yards already.

Mycroft ordered the four agents who had delivered the doctor, to step away from him before he approached John.

John Watson was hopping mad. What was it that people regardless of their age, belief or nationality had the urge to abduct him? He was about to shout abuse at a tall Russian in a blue uniform who was approaching him slowly when he realized the man looked rather familiar. Blond hair, brown eyes and a scar that ran from the man's left ear to the corner of his mouth but underneath that disguise he recognized Mycroft Holmes.

'Hallelujah!' John thought. With one look the elder Holmes indicated that John should stay where he was. The doctor tried to rid his face of all emotions, uncertain what he was supposed to do.

Mycroft walked round John so the army doctor's back was turned to the Russians and then the most peculiar thing happened. John heard Mycroft speak but somehow the movement of his mouth wasn't matching his words. Was it possible the man was a ventriloquist? The army doctor decided he could ask him later. For now all he had to do was nod that under no circumstances could he speak with anyone, that he would have to change into different clothes and within an hour they would be on their way back home.

"Very well," Mycroft said to Komarow when he had talked to John, "we need to change and get started. I want to be airborne before the sun is up."

Both Mycroft and John were fitted with anti-g flight suits. John knew what the suit was for but he still had to prevent his mouth from falling open when they entered the flight hangar and were confronted with a Russian fighter. His first impression was that of an enormous shark. Walking closer he wondered who would fly the fighter. Only when Mycroft Holmes, the bloody, umbrella carrying politician, strapped John into the second seat with utmost care, controlling every single strap and belt and climbed into the pilot's seat in front of John it dawned on the army doctor. His brain was still trying to make the connection between the government official he knew and the man who went to the pre-flight check as if he did it every day, when all of a sudden the jet began to move.

A tractor pulled the fighter from the hangar into the grey early morning light. Once the towing device was disconnected from the landing gear, Mycroft powered up the engines.

The army doctor felt his mouth go dry when the jet rolled to the end of the runway. He had never flown in a fighter jet but he had heard about the murderous acceleration.

Mycroft's voice could be heard over the headphone in the helmet. He was communicating in Russian with somebody. With a button the politician switched off communications with the base so he could talk directly to John.

"I'm sorry, John but these people believe I'm a test pilot so I have to take off accordingly."

Before John had even the chance to reply the engines bellowed and the plane shot forward. The army doctor was pressed into his seat and within seconds they were airborne, the assent dauntingly steep. He could be wrong but even though John could only see Mycroft's shoulders he had an inkling that the man had been close to whooping with joy.

During the next thirty minutes John had to craft a completely new image of Mycroft Holmes. Gone was the stiff, bespoke suit wearing man, replaced by a skilled pilot who was flying all the manoeuvres expected from a test pilot. After about twenty minutes Mycroft led the fighter to a higher altitude and accelerated to supersonic speed.

Although they were wearing their helmets the sonic boom was deafening.

"Unfortunately, the fuel won't last to bring us all the way home," Mycroft told John eventually. Also I have to stay in touch with the Russians. Otherwise they might smell a rat and send fighters to intercept us."

"How far are you going to fly us?" the doctor asked.

"We're going to bail out near Istanbul."

John mulled this over. Bail out? Why had the man chosen that particular expression instead of saying disembark?

He kept listening to Mycroft talking in Russian over the radio but didn't understand a single word of the conversation. When he finally understood a word, all his alarm bells went off but it was too late. "Doswidanja," Mycroft had said and a second later first John and a moment later Mycroft was propelled out of the jet by the ejector seats. It took the doctor's brain several seconds to come online again and when it did, he was already falling towards the Black Sea, the parachute strapped to his body slowing his fall. However, that didn't stop him from screaming his lungs out.

* * *

Using an ejector seat as means of escape is probably not something the "real Mycroft" would do because of the extreme danger from the explosives that are used to open the capsule of the jet and to catapult the seat out of the aircraft as well as the extreme g-forces which often enough cause compression fractures of the vertebrae. But the picture of Mycroft in the Serbian uniform was still very clear in my mind and I liked the idea of a Mycroft with military training; I liked even more the idea of him clad in a combat dress, doing some cool stuff nobody would expect of the  
usually bespoke suit wearing British Government.


	7. Chapter 7

From their respective hiding places both Sherlock and the DI watched the potential burglar. The man was in his mid-twenties, rather thin and he was carrying a backpack. Looking around carefully he caught sight of the man-shaped bundle under the gateway and strolled over to have a closer look. As soon as he caught a whiff of the stench, that implied the hapless tramp under the blanket was already busy decomposing, the inspection was abandoned.

With a disgusted sniff the man withdrew and continued to approach his initial destination at the other side of the street. Once he had looked around again, the man drew a crowbar from underneath his jacket, pried the door of the hairdresser's salon open and quickly slipped inside.

The consulting detective had been successful in convincing the policeman that it was crucial they followed the thug to his lair. Therefore both men stayed hidden until the man reappeared and walked back towards the direction he had come from. The backpack the thug carried looked bulkier and in addition he carried a medium sized rubbish-bag. Greg knew that Sherlock was following the burglar by using the rooftops of some houses but that would only work for the first hundred-fifty metres. Therefore, as soon as the man had disappeared around the corner he abandoned his hideout, darted into the shadow of a brick-wall and hurried after him.

The burglar obviously didn't expect anybody to follow him for, without turning, he kept walking along the main street. It looked as if the burglar had reached his destination when he turned into an alley and entered the enclosed area behind a block of flats but within a minute he reappeared and was now walking towards his pursuers. Sherlock leapt over a fence to remain hidden while Greg ducked into a driveway. The thug passed them and kept walking towards the main-street but he had abandoned the rubbish-bag.

Knowing Sherlock would want to look for it himself, the DI continued the pursuit. Shortly afterwards the consulting detective caught up with him and it wasn't a moment too soon because the man they had been following reached a car and drove away.

Immediately Sherlock broke into a run and instinctively the DI sprinted after him. For a moment the DI wondered if Sherlock planned on following the man on foot. The detective's rate of success in London was rather high but naturally that wouldn't work in rural areas. But then Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat and with a flash of its lights and a beep a car that was parked at the curb signalled the owner of the key was near.

How Sherlock could have known in which direction their burglar would flee to park a car accordingly, the DI couldn't begin to fathom but he jumped into the passenger's seat just in time. The door slammed shut automatically when the car shot forward and all Greg could do was cling to the handle inside the door. In less than a minute they had caught up with the car and kept following it at a safe distance. After a few miles Sherlock turned into a country road only to switch off the car's headlights, reverse and race after their thug in complete darkness.

When they finally reached their destination the DI was drenched in sweat but he had to admit that the young Holmes seemed to have a sixth sense for driving. Although they had been in pursuit Sherlock had even made an emergency stop in the middle of a village when all of a sudden a tiny hedgehog had scurried across the street. The moment the little critter had left the road Sherlock had slammed his foot on the accelerator to continue their pursuit.

They reached a residential area in York where the burglar finally parked the car and entered a two-storey terraced house. The DI didn't even have time to wonder how Sherlock intended to continue. Before he could suggest that it might be a good time to call for backup the young Holmes had picked the lock of the door and entered the house. Throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, the policeman followed Sherlock inside.

It didn't take long to come in contact with the tenant of the house. They had barely crossed the hallway when the man they had followed stepped from a room right in front of them. He pointed a gun at them.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded to know with the air of a person wronged by the law.

Before either Greg or Sherlock could react, the man wrinkled his nose.

"You're the stinking tramp from Pickering. I should have been more careful." He waved the gun in the general direction of the policeman.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard," Greg introduced himself. "We're here to arrest you for committing the offence of burglary according to section nine of the Theft Act."

The man snorted with laughter. "And how do you intend to arrest me? In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who's holding a gun."

"Beginner's mistake," Sherlock said, slamming is elbow into the man's face. "They're always standing too close to be effective."

Greg Lestrade snatched the gun from the surprised man's grasp while Sherlock wrestled the thug to the ground. They searched him but didn't find anything but a ring with a couple of keys and a mobile phone. Sherlock put the phone into the pocket of his coat under the man's watchful eyes.

"What is your name?" Greg asked but all he received was a smirk.

"How about you give us a tour through the house," Sherlock suggested.

Greg pulled out his mobile to call for backup but there was no service. 'Bloody old buildings!' he cursed. He could go outside to make the call but Sherlock was already marching deeper into the house with the other man and the policeman really didn't want to leave him alone.

At first it looked as if the house had a common floor plan but when they climbed up the stairs the image changed. Three quarters of the upper floor had been transformed into a laboratory which could be entered through a thick glass door.

Upon entering the laboratory the consulting detective looked like a child who had been led into Santa Claus' private workshop. Slowly and in awe Sherlock walked through the room and studied every piece of equipment on the large workbench thoroughly. The DI remained just inside the lab, keeping watch. Minutes passed in silence before Sherlock turned towards a large cabinet with glass doors.

The cabinet for storing chemicals in an airtight environment contained several rows of large brown bottles, each labelled H2 O2. Hydrogen peroxide.

The consulting detective's face transformed into what Greg secretly called the 'I-knew-it expression' and braced for the inevitable explanation.

"You broke into the hairdresser's salons to steal hydrogen peroxide which is used to bleach human hair. You could have acquired a more potent solution elsewhere but you are in no hurry and rather wanted to play it safe. You're planning to build a bomb."

Cocking his head, Sherlock studied the man's face before he continued rattling off how the man had turned diluted hydrogen peroxide into a solution he could use for his purposes. Finished with the practical part of the man's plan, Sherlock started on his family history, drug abuse and mental disorder.

Greg felt almost sorry for the thug who could only nod once Sherlock concluded his deductions with the question, "Am I right?"

"Do you want to see the other lab?" the man asked in a quivering tone of voice.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "There is no other laboratory."

"Yes, there is. It's in the basement."

The DI left the laboratory first and Sherlock, confused that he hadn't seen signs for a second laboratory followed him out of the room automatically. At the same time but too late nonetheless, they noticed that the man had stayed behind. The heavy glass door was closed and locked behind them.

"Shit!" the DI cursed. What is he going to do now? Do you think he's going to blow himself up?"

"No," Sherlock said. "He doesn't seem the suicidal type."

Through the glass door they could watch the man walking to a box that was attached to the wall. He opened the box and flipped a switch. Nothing happened but a few seconds later Greg felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. He had received a message, which meant that the mobile phone had connection.

The man inside the laboratory picked up a phone and began to dial.

"Exploding mobile!" Sherlock and Greg shouted simultaneously.

Sherlock dug up the mobile phone from the depth of his coat and Greg snatched it from his hand. The DI bolted down the stairs, burst out of the house and with as much force as he could muster he threw the phone across the street straight into the river Foss. A muffled blast could be heard just seconds after the phone had sunk.

The consulting detective came running out of the house. "It looks like he's going to blow up the house after all," he shouted. Exchanging glances, both men separated and began banging at the doors of the neighbouring houses.

Fortune was on their side because shortly after they had begun their campaign two police cars arrived, alerted by somebody who had been roused from sleep by the ruckus outside.

By consolidating their efforts, they managed to evacuate the buildings just in time before a terrible explosion ripped a stretch of eight houses apart.

Nobody but the bomb maker died in the explosion.

oOo

It took two hefty agents of the British Secret Service to stop John Watson from throttling Mycroft Holmes. Not sooner than both men had been extracted from the sixteen degree warm water and dumped into the boat that had been waiting for them to fall from the sky, the army doctor had pounced on the elder Holmes. In the small boat his unexpected action had caused one agent to go overboard and another to be flung against the skipper's back. The man barely managed to keep the boat steady and only after two agents, one wet, the other one dry, sat on the angry doctor was the situation brought under control.

For the length of the boat-ride Mycroft listened to John complaining vociferously about the exit of the fighter at an altitude of about 18,000 feet. When the doctor's voice began to give out Mycroft patiently shushed the man and made a peace offering of a shower, tea, a meal and some explanations, all but the latter hot. It was probably the tea that won John over; and the fact that being the cushion for two grown men was rather uncomfortable.

Half an hour later John was dressed in dry clothes and although he was so tired he could hardly keep is eyes open while consuming a full-English breakfast, he insisted on hearing the promised explanations.

It turned out that Ben Fani had been a henchman of IS. It explained why he had hated both the British as well as the Taliban. John's suspicion, that the translator had betrayed the intervention force that had been deployed to free Prince Harry and the other prisoners, proved to be correct.

The IS team who had attacked and destroyed the village had managed to make it look as if the British army was responsible for this hideous act. The team that had been sent to free the prisoners was accused of having murdered seventy-two Afghan men, women and children. Had John been handed over to the Afghan authorities, he would have been killed before he could have made an official statement.

By using the Russians to kidnap John from the German hospital Mycroft had caused the confusion he had hoped for. Already highly amusing speculations of conspiracy were circulating. Mycroft didn't tell John about the unfortunate German soldier who had discovered the doctor's real name and therefore now had a laptop with incriminating material in his possession. Material that implied he had disclosed secrets to the NSA.

Harry had been picked up by members of the Secret Service right after surgery. As a member of the Royal family he had diplomatic immunity and he was already on his way to England. Surgery had gone well and the Prince would make a full recovery. The Royal family was in John's debt.

A bit later, when the exhausted army doctor got comfortable between the expensive sheets of his bed, he had the fleeting thought that it was a bloody shame that he travelled with Mycroft Holmes. For once he occupied a spacious suite on board of the luxury yacht that had every business to feature in a James Bond film. But instead of sharing a bed with an exotic beauty while the yacht was passing through the Bosporus to get them into European territory, he was all by himself.

Perhaps, if sleep hadn't claimed him already, John might have wondered when a lanky man with smooth, pale skin and rainbow-eyes had become his idea of exotic beauty.


	8. Chapter 8

This is the part of the story which deserves the M because of sexually, implicit content. It's not too smutty though, in case you worry.

* * *

It was past lunchtime before the statements made by Sherlock and Greg were finally typed, printed and signed. The police in York were efficient but the officers who handled the case of the bomb making burglar had quickly insisted that their colleague from London changed and took a shower before he was allowed to enter any office or interview room. The stench from the blanket Sherlock had provided for the stakeout had done in the DI's outer garments for good. When Greg had left the shower even his underwear, socks and shoes smelt suspiciously and he decided to part with them too.

Sherlock had been sent to Pickering to fetch their personal belongings and check out the B & B. With an offended huff, the young Holmes had turned up the collar of his Belstaff and obeyed. Greg suspected it had made a difference that a few minutes earlier text from Mycroft had arrived in which the man had announced that he and John Watson were about to board a plane in Turkey that would take them to London in just over four hours.

Nobody expected that the consulting detective would be back for two hours because the drive itself took about fifty minutes. Sherlock returned within ninety.

During the train ride back to London Sherlock was completely quiet but the closer they got to their destination the more restless he got.

The DI, who had been reading the newspaper to pass the time gave up eventually. Folding the paper, Greg smiled at the younger Holmes.

"Impatient getting home?" he asked. "John and Mycroft should be approaching England by now." Greg felt is own heartbeat step up a notch. He too was looking forward to the return of both his partner and John.

The sound the consulting detective produced could be translated to about anything ranging from 'yes' to 'leave me alone'. Greg kept smiling patiently.

"Why don't you explain to me how you knew in which direction our mysterious burglar would leave Pickering. As far as I know no roads were closed down and at least four streets lead in all directions."

Sherlock became very still all of a sudden. He didn't look at the man sitting next to him but dug through one pocket of his coat instead and removed three different sets of car keys.

"Oh," was all he replied.

The policeman studied the keys that were displayed in Sherlock's palm. "You rented several cars and parked them strategically in Pickering so whatever way the thug took would bring us within reach of one of the cars?"

"Four cars." The consulting detective nodded and still looked away sheepishly.

"And you forgot to return three of them." The DI grinned. "Well, the rental car agency will charge you quite a bit for the extra days and that they have to pick them up themselves."

Sherlock dug through another pocket and unearthed a credit card which had the name Gregory Lestrade printed on its front.

"I didn't use my card. It was a joined operation and I decided it was only fair if we split the costs. I had already paid for the B & B."

Greg was speechless. He was used to the younger Holmes antics but this took the biscuit. Although he took deep breaths in order to keep his rising anger under control, he felt himself beginning to shake from the anger. He snatched the card from the young Holmes' grasp and put it into his wallet. For once he no longer cared that Sherlock regarded shouting abuse unnecessary and expedient. Right now he knew he had to let off some steam or he would punch Sherlock in the face if the man did anything else to rile him any further.

The imminent arrival at King's Cross Station was all that saved Greg Lestrade from being forcefully evicted from the train. Still, two men from the train station's security detail accompanied the angry man until he had left the station for good.

oOo

John's legs were not as long as Mycroft's but he was still able to beat him running up the stairs to 221b. He barged through the door and stopped so suddenly that the elder Holmes almost bumped into John's back.

Blue eyes wide and lips slightly parted, the army doctor could all but stare in delight at his friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective was facing Greg Lestrade and by the looks on both men's faces they had been in the middle of an argument.

Both Sherlock and the Inspector had shut up the moment the door flew open, pleasantly startled by the arriving party.

Mycroft had been informed about the occurrences in Yorkshire and knew that the explosion had neither harmed his partner nor Sherlock. It took him a split second to see that indeed both men were all right but Gregory was looking positively harassed; in Mycroft's opinion more than understandably because the man had spent the past three days with Sherlock. A hug, Mycroft knew from experience, would make his partner feel better immediately.

A few long strides and he could reach out and enfold Gregory in his arms, bury his nose in his hair and nuzzle... Mycroft recoiled as if he had stuck his nose into a nest of thistles instead of soft, silvery hair.

"Good lord, Gregory!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you? You reek like Redbeard once did after having wallowed in the rotten intestines of a dead seal."

"Your dear brother provided me with a blanket for our stakeout," the Inspector growled, rather displeased by the withheld caresses. "It seems even a shower and a ridiculous amount of soap couldn't eradicate the stench."

Sherlock, completely engrossed by the sight of a somewhat tired but otherwise unharmed John Watson, was oblivious to the British government's glare, suitable for incinerating people.

Recognizing a lost cause as well as an opportunity, the elder Holmes stepped closer to his brother and wrapped one arm around Sherlock's bony shoulders, startling him successfully from his contemplation.

"For your sake I hope that Gregory won't suffer any side-effects from the exposure to that ghastly blanket."

"It is nothing a hot bath won't cure. Since he tolerates repeated physical contact with your skin," Sherlock shuddered visibly, "he has proven to be of robust health." The consulting detective tried to squirm from his brother's embrace.

"A hot bath. What a lovely idea, brother mine." Mycroft released his sibling, bid a quick goodbye and dragged Gregory from the flat towards the waiting car that would take them home. There he would provide him with a proper bath, which undoubtedly would be followed by a great deal of debauchery. Studying the luscious bottom of his partner while the man climbed into the car the government official was already very much looking forward to familiarising himself again with the inspector's enticing body. Only later would he tell him about the upcoming trip to New York and show him the credit card he had just nicked from his distracted brother. Mycroft considered himself a very lucky man.

oOo

Once Greg and Mycroft had left the flat it was very quiet. The flatmates of 221b stood somewhat awkwardly in the middle of their living-room, facing each other.

Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured somewhat unspecifically with his hands. "It's good that you're home." It looked like Sherlock was about to say something else but instead he ducked his head and turned towards the kitchen table.

John knew he had to speak up now or the moment would be gone again, maybe forever. "Don't do that," he said, stepping into Sherlock's path.

"What do you mean?" The Detective cocked his head, studying the man in front of him with a curious but somewhat uncertain expression.

"Don't turn away from me," the doctor explained. "There is something I need to tell you." John licked his lips, suddenly very nervous about what reaction his words would cause.

Sherlock was silent and kept looking at the blond doctor expectantly.

"When I was in Afghanistan, I missed you."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded. "I missed you too. Dealing with Lestrade has been arduous."

John couldn't help but smile. "That's not what I meant, Sherlock. I missed you because," he gestured somewhat helplessly with his hands, "because I missed you."

"That," Sherlock replied, "doesn't make much sense." He looked confused.

The blond doctor took a deep breath and plucked up all his courage before he said, "I missed you, Sherlock, because I care for you. When I realized that I was back in Afghanistan I was," the doctor blushed, "I was scared and I wished that you were there. Once I heard your voice over the phone I felt better. It gave me strength talking to you because I think I'm in love with you." John had spoken fast and all of a sudden he was very much out of breath.

"There, I said it. Now you can go and continue with your experiment or.." his voice trailed off.

"Or? " Sherlock asked, his rainbow-eyes as big as saucers.

John swallowed and bit his lips. "Or you could kiss me."

Sherlock froze. His expression was unreadable when he stared at his flatmate.

"Fuck!" John cursed. He had screwed it up. Slowly he lowered his gaze and turned away from Sherlock, overwhelmed by how much the rejection hurt. However, before John could walk away, a strong but elegant hand touched his shoulder.

"Don't go!"

The doctor stopped and turned, allowing his friend to study his familiar face carefully.

"When I said I missed you I felt something similar. Without you," Sherlock struggled to find the right words, "it felt like I was missing some part of me. It was difficult to function, to  
concentrate. It was as if you had taken a part of my mind with you." He studied the blue depth of John's eyes. "And a part of my heart."

Both men looked at each other and very slowly their expressions of uncertainty were replaced by joy.

"Oh, come here, " John said, took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him.

As John had expected Sherlock's lips were incredibly soft. If the man hadn't been several inches taller than he was, John could have pretended that he was kissing a woman. But then, why would he want to pretend that he was kissing a woman when he could kiss Sherlock Holmes?  
Beautiful, astonished Sherlock who, when the kiss had ended, was looking at the doctor with so much adoration, that John felt his knees go weak.

They kissed again and it felt even better than the first kiss. It was as if they were learning a whole new language. A language designed for the sole purpose to explain love. Within the Holmes family Mycroft was the one with a knack for languages but right now both Sherlock and John were doing really well. Only when exhaustion caused the blond doctor to yawn into an ongoing kiss making both men laugh, did they stop to look at each other.

John pressed the palm of one hand to Sherlock's face. "I would like to do so much more than kiss you but I'm exhausted."

"Then you shall sleep," Sherlock replied.

John expected to be sent upstairs into his room but instead he was led by the hand to Sherlock's room. For a moment it appeared as if Sherlock would undress him but then the man's hands fell to his sides.

Without taking his eyes of Sherlock, John took off his shirt and put it on a chair. Bending down he then took off his shoes, socks and trousers. Dressed in a pair of pants and a t-shirt John sat on the bed. He was looking expectantly at Sherlock when he remembered that the man often slept in the nude.

"I, ah, do you want me to turn around?"

"Don't be ridiculous," his flatmate scoffed and began to unbutton his shirt. "You have seen all of me before."

However, about half a minute later Sherlock felt that even though his statement was true, all of a sudden he felt unexpectantly shy undressing in front of his friend, perhaps because for the first time the gaze that caressed his body was no longer that of a doctor but of a man who was attracted to him. What should he call him? Boy-friend sounded too juvenile..

"In case you're wondering, it's easier to take off your trousers after you've taken off your shoes."

Sherlock returned the teasing smile with a smirk but he indeed took off is shoes, trousers and socks and crawled into bed in only his pants.

John wished he had enough energy left to do indecent things to the beautiful body next to him but right now his body demanded sleep. He barely managed to kiss Sherlock's lips again before he fell asleep, oblivious to being cradled by strong arms and tenderly pulled to the chest of the man he loved.

John tried to identify the sounds that had woken him. Remaining perfectly still he listened to the soft rustling. Catching a whiff of a familiar smell caused him to chuckle quietly and open his eyes. Sherlock was sitting in bed next to him, reading a book while eating toffees. Engrossed in the book, he was unwrapping another toffee and popping it into his mouth. Chewing carefully, Sherlock produced a sound of appreciation before he was swallowing, licking his lips and reaching for another sweet. The rustling of the candy wrapper and Sherlock's hum were the sounds John had heard.

A stream of light coming from the street lamps outside, illuminated Sherlock's face, that wore the content expression of a man reading a good book. Chewing almost absent-mindedly on his toffees, Sherlock adjusted the book so the light coming from the bedside lamp fell over the right page.

"Did you know I solved my third case because the man who murdered his wife had lied about which toffee he ate?" Sherlock asked John without taking his eyes of the book.

Slightly startled, John blinked before he answered. "No, I didn't know that." Stretching and yawning he wiggled closer to Sherlock. "What time is it?" he asked, running a hand along a sheet covered thigh.

"Four thirty," Sherlock replied before marking the page and putting both the book he had been reading and the almost empty bag of sweets onto the bedside table.

"Way too early to get up." John's voice was lower than usually and Sherlock slid down to lie next to him.

"But you are awake."

John turned. Sherlock's face was a mere inch from his and he could smell the toffees on the man's breath.

"I like the taste of caramel quite a bit," the doctor said.

For a moment it looked as if Sherlock would offer him one of the sweets but he quickly caught on when he noticed the gaze that was lingering on his mouth.

The concept of kissing, cuddling and, contrary to Mycroft's assumption, sex, wasn't new to Sherlock but sharing this very pleasant physical aspect of a relationship with someone he not only cared about but with a person who understood him like no-one else, was new.

With one swift motion he rolled John onto his back and kissed him, inviting the man's nimble tongue into his mouth to share the caramel taste.

"Delicious," John murmured, leaving it open if he meant the caramel taste or the man he had been kissing.

Realizing that for once he really didn't care which was the right answer, Sherlock claimed the inviting mouth for another kiss. The touch of John's mouth and tongue which got more demanding by the minute, aroused him to no end. With trembling fingers he began to explore the warm skin of John's muscular chest, caressing and teasing until the blond doctor stopped him, sat up and not only took off his shirt but also wiggled out of his pants. He was fully erect and all Sherlock could do was stare for a moment before he ran his hand all the way from the hollow of the doctor's throat to his hip.

John's scent, the feeling of his skin and the sounds he made, went straight to Sherlock's cock. He too took off his own pants and was rewarded with a sheer repertoire of sensations when their naked bodied finally rubbed against each other. Rolling around like wrestlers Sherlock ended up on his back before sharp teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of his throat, followed by a lap of John's clever tongue. The slight pain combined with the wet caress sent another wave of pleasure through the younger man's body.

John marvelled at how receptive Sherlock was to his touch. The expanse of an almost hairless chest was completely different from the soft women's breast he was used to but the strong body that was arching into his held its own allure. Hard muscles shifted under his fingertips while he kept exploring the body that seemed to be sculptured by the most talented artist.

Long legs were wrapping around John's body and with a groan he began rutting against the hard flesh that met his every move. They were grinding their hips together with growing urgency until sweet completion hit them. Shouting each others names they came forcefully, trembling through the heights of their orgasms before they went limp with satisfaction.

Minutes passed until John's brain slowly came back online. Lifting his head to look at the debauched looking man underneath him. Slowly Sherlock opened his eyes and a sweet smile began to curl the corners of his mouth.

"How about a shower, more sleep and maybe we can do this again before breakfast," John suggested. Sherlock, who immediately recognized the wisdom of John's suggestion, agreed. If anything he liked a good plan and this was a very good plan indeed.

* * *

Now only the epilogue is left but I hope to publish it within a couple of days - it's only written and just needs to be beta-ed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Two months later**

It was a cold Sunday morning when John Watson was knocking on the door of Greg Lestrade's flat. The DI opened the door, wearing a maroon sweater, grey sweatpants and woollen socks. If he was surprised by John's visit, he didn't let on. Hanging John's jacket and scarf on the rack in the hallway, he ushered the man into the kitchen where the table was laid out for breakfast for two.

Knowing John never refused a good cuppa, Greg poured tea for him from a white bone china teapot into a matching cup.

"Here you go. Have a seat."

"I always considered you to be more of a ceramic type than porcelain," John quipped while sitting down.

"And you are right," Mycroft said while he was walking into the kitchen and sitting down across from the surprised doctor. "Good morning, John. I contributed the teapot and cups to this kitchen."

John stared at the government official who, as far as John could see, was wearing nothing but an elegant dressing-gown. The man's hair was still damp from a shower, he smelled of an expensive aftershave and the open neck of the dressing-gown displayed a generous amount of ginger chest-hair.

"I apologize," John spoke up, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "I should have called instead of coming over unannounced." He began to rise from his chair but the DI's strong hand stopped him.

"Stay, John, it's all right," he said, sitting down at the table and pouring tea for Mycroft and himself. "It's certainly important or you wouldn't have come."

"Well," John took a sip from his cup and hummed appreciatively. "I received this letter." He laid an envelope on the table.

Mycroft, who recognized the expensive paper as well as the seal, smiled. "Considering that you saved the life of a member of the royal family, that was quite expected. You'll been granted knighthood, I presume."

Greg's face lit up with a smile when John nodded. "That's fantastic. Congratulations, mate." The DI slapped his friend's shoulder. "God, I like to see that."

John winced visibly and looked down at his cup. "That's... that's what I'm here to talk about." He downed the rest of his tea before he continued. "You see," he shot both Mycroft and Greg an uncertain look and swallowed, "I'm allowed to bring only three people. Naturally there's Sherlock but I know Mrs. Hudson would be over the moon to be part of that and then there's Mike Stamford..." He trailed off to let the other men do the maths.

"If you want Gregory to be there as well I can certainly make the necessary arrangements," Mycroft said, understanding John Watson's dilemma.

"That would be really great," John replied, "but I want both of you there." Upon seeing Mycroft's surprised expression he laughed. "Of course, I do. We might not be the closest friends but you brought me home from Afghanistan, Greg probably wouldn't come unless you went too and through Sherlock you are family for me as well."

"Your tongue is quite beautiful, my love, but you might want to close your mouth again," Greg said with a smile and put a gentle hand under the elder Holmes' dropped jaw. Mycroft closed his mouth with a snap.

Obviously moved by the gesture, John Watson's, not his partners, Mycroft took a sip from his cup and cleared his throat.

"Thank you. If you want us, naturally we're both going to be there."

Greg looked back and forth between Mycroft and John. "Yes, we'll clear our schedules and afterwards we're all going out for dinner."

Mycroft nodded. "As we're all fond of Indian cuisine I'll book a table at the Amaya in Belgravia. And don't worry, John, I'll pay for it," he added.

"Thank you," John said again, and his tone of voice revealed that it was heartfelt. The doctor stood up and Greg followed him to the door.

"What does Sherlock say?" the DI asked, while John closed his jacket. "I bet he is very proud."

John was swaying his head from left to right. "I don't think so. When I showed him the letter he read it, made a rude noise and disappeared into the kitchen to finish some of his obscure experiments."

Slapping John's shoulder again before holding the door for him, the DI nodded. "Well, wait until the ceremony and we'll see."

"He probably thinks it's silly, especially since I'm the one receiving the honour, not him, the master consulting detective," John replied and left.

oOo

John Hamish Watson was one-hundred per cent certain that he couldn't be more nervous if this had been his wedding day. Although the ceremony would take place in the ballroom in Buckingham Palace in the afternoon, he woke up at five thirty in the morning and was unable to go asleep again.

What if he did something wrong? What if his suit looked shabbier than the suits of the other guests? What if he stumbled? What if Sherlock was identified as the man who once stole an ashtray and John was accused of being his accomplice? Oh god!

John got up, showered, shaved, drank a cup of tea and ate a slice of toast. At six fifteen he was sitting in his armchair, wearing his dressing-gown and staring at the clock on the mantelpiece.

At seven John began to pace, at eight twenty he had another shower and at nine Sherlock finally had enough. He dragged John back to the bedroom and distracted him by doing things to him that were too filthy to describe but suitable for taking the doctor's mind of anything but mind-blowing pleasure.

Somehow the hours passed and after another shower John and Sherlock were finally dressed and ready to go. At the designated time a limousine picked up both men and their rather exited landlady. The car rolled through a cold but sunny London, stopped to pick up Mike Stamford and then brought them to Buckingham Palace.

John had been there before but today it was different. He had an invitation, he would be granted knighthood and, oh god, he was nervous. Sherlock, who sat next to him, took his hand and began to rub gently at his wrist. The doctor tried to ignore the smiling faces of both his friend Mike Stamford and Mrs. Hudson and all of a sudden the tension was lifted from his shoulders. He first smiled and then laughed before taking Sherlock's hand and squeezing it affectionately.

They were led though the decorated hall and up the stairs to first attend a briefing by the Lord Chamberlain's office. It was there that they met with Mycroft and Greg, both looking very handsome in matching dark suits, undoubtedly provided by a tailor in Savile Row.

After the briefing they all walked through the picture gallery as well as the east gallery to the back of the ball room and from there to an annex that ran alongside that room. From there they came to a doorway through which they entered the ballroom.

Usually the awards were given on the advice by the Prime Minister's office but John's was an exception. After Prince Harry had returned from Afghanistan he himself had told his grandmother that he thought that the honour of knighthood should be bestowed upon the man who had saved his life.

John felt goosebumps raising all over his body when the national anthem was played. Then the first name was called and the ceremony began. One by one the recipients entered the room to receive their awards and finally John's name was called.

"Sir John Watson, for services to the royal family!"

He stepped forward and walked into the room to kneel in front of Her Royal Majesty herself.

The blade of a sword was touched to both his shoulders, first the right shoulder, then his left. He got up as he had been instructed and bowed his head so the Queen could put the ribbon with his award around his neck.

"You are known by many in this house for your blogs," the Queen told him, "but you will always be remembered for the service you did for us by saving my grandson Henry's life."

"It's been my privilege, ma'am" John replied and shook the Queen's hand.

He turned to walk out of the room when his gaze fell upon his friends who sat in the small audience that was gathered to watch the ceremony. Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade and even Mycroft Holmes were sporting broad smiles. Mrs Hudson was smiling too but she was so very moved that she had to dab her eyes with a handkerchief. Outshining all the others though was Sherlock. Although it was a clear breach of ceremony the self-acclaimed sociopath had risen to his feet and was looking at him tenderly. A smile played around the man's lips and the love that shone in his eyes made it clear to everybody that Sherlock Holmes couldn't be more proud of the achievements of his friend and partner, Sir John Watson.

* * *

At the birthday auction for Rubert Graves I bought the artwork for this story from Notluvulongtime who tailored it specifically for this story. I think she did a fantastic job.

In case the image for the story is too small for you, check out my profile on Tumblr or AO3: Copgirl1964. You'll find the cover there too.

I want to thank again johnsarmylady and jack63kids for their help beta-ing the story.

For the perhaps slightly disappointed Mystrade fans who had hoped for more interaction between Greg and Mycroft perhaps I will write a short ficlet about the bath and Gregory's reaction to Mycroft wearing the anti-g suit.


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